


Two Ladies

by ANaTHEMaDEVIsed



Category: Dirty Dancing (1987)
Genre: F/F, Femslash, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:14:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANaTHEMaDEVIsed/pseuds/ANaTHEMaDEVIsed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Dirty Dancing was based on a true story?  As it happens, it is.  What if this was the true story?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Ladies

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:  
> All television shows, movies, stage musicals, books and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
> 
> Author’s Notes Ad Nauseum (wherein I totally ruin the surprise - if you are not easily offended and care little for political correctness, skip directly to the fic):  
> 1\. I borrowed the format of this title page and the wording of the disclaimer in its entirety from Heartsways on Passion Perfect. Thank you! 
> 
> 2\. This fic is an odd mix of AU and RPFS and is based on a premise that Jennifer Grey’s life more or less has traveled the same course it has with the exception that the character of Baby Houseman is based on a true story. In actuality, Dirty Dancing is based on the life of screenwriter Eleanor Bergstein. For the purposes of this AU-RPFS Dirty Dancing femslash, I’ve made Eleanor Bergstein into an amalgam of several of her own characters who happen to be based on real people. Ironic considering she made several true life people into the amalgamated characters that populated the movie. Welcome to the weird little literary paradox that is this story. This fic is primarily employed setting the stage for the core relationship between Baby and Penny even though that relationship isn’t fully explored until a prequel that is not included here. Given the fact that Dirty Dancing is semi-autobiographical on the part of Eleanor Bergstein, it is impossible to divorce the femslash from the RPFS. I say semi-autobiographical because according to her bio she has more or less portrayed herself as the Johnny character in the movie. Hence the inspiration for the femslash. If she’s Johnny, who’s Baby? Technically all of the Dirty Dancing characters exist much like the actors who played them. In order to ship Baby and Penny, I must alter the suspension of disbelief with the suggestion that the movie isn’t in large part the fictional aspect of the storytelling at play here. By nature, RPFS is highly speculative and there is a odd little line one crosses in fictionalizing the lives of “real people”. However, consider the movie Titanic as a random example of RPFS that is widely accepted without any notion of moral ambiguity. Margaret Tobin nee Brown, known posthumously as Molly Brown, was a real person and not just a fictional character in the editorialized reenactment of a sinking ship. I justify my choice in pursuing a story with these specific characters under the rationalization that what celebrities allow us to see is a caricature in and of itself. We do not see the real person behind the character that is portrayed for the sake of publicity. To take that character and further personify it with plots of our own design, saying “what if this is what happened?” is the nature of fanfiction even in the case of RPFS. In short, hope these choices do not offend. Be warned and read no further if they do.

Two Ladies  
Denouement 

 

I.  
Early August 1986 …

“249 West 45th.” Jennifer raised her voice to be heard over CB chatter past the scratched plastic partition.

“That’s the uh … Imperial, right?” The cab driver glanced up to look in the rear view mirror. Jennifer nodded her confirmation, sitting back against the creaking plastic upholstery as he pulled out into traffic. “ You an actress or somethin’?” He asked turning down the volume on the CB. Jennifer gazed out the window, feeling a momentary bout of motion-sickness as he swerved to pass another cab driver stopped to pick up a fare.

“Or something.” She murmured in response. 

“My wife wants me to get tickets to that show but I don’t know. I’m not much of a fan of musicals myself.” The cab driver cursed under his breath, honking his horn at an over-zealous bike messenger.

“It’s a great show. You should take her to see it.” Jennifer focused on the backs of the front seats. The scenery flashing past at high speed was not doing much for her roiling stomach. She’d woken up that morning feeling like she was at sea. The fortuitous news her agent had shared over the phone had overnight turned breathless elation into the nauseating butterflies one associates with terror. Her first big break, he’d hinted before hanging up. That and he’d said she needed to be on set in three weeks, prepared to dance. Dance? Granted she’d taken scores of lessons as a kid, but she was no bun head. She’d lost count of the “you’ll be fines” and given up any lingering protest. “You’ll be fine” meant, this is happening so figure it out. She dug through her purse. Somewhere there was a bottle of Tums.

“Yeah, I probably will. So who are you anyway?”

“Huh?” Jennifer looked up to meet the cab driver’s gaze, his eyebrows raised in expectation.

“In the play, who are you?”

“Oh, I’m not in it. I’m going to visit my Dad.” Jennifer offered. “He’s in it.”

“So what, you do musicals too, like your old man?” Jennifer reached out to brace herself as the cabbie whipped them around a corner. She imagined the cab teetering on two wheels and felt the blood drain from her face. Resuming the search through her purse, she nodded absently.

“Yeah, uh no not musicals. I’ve been acting in movies.” The cabdriver whistled impressed.

“Hey hey, movie star. Anything I’ve seen?” He asked. “Now movies, I love. I’m a big fan of old glamorous Hollywood.”

“Uh, I just did Red Dawn with Patrick Swayze and Emilio Estevez … not exactly glam.” She demurred feeling herself blush as she recalled her gun-wielding scenes in the low budget action flick.

“No kidding.” He grinned impressed. “I saw that - lots of action. It was good. Those kids really gave the reds what for, right?” Triumph lighting her features, Jennifer tugged the bottle out of her purse, popped two tablets into her mouth and chewed with visible relief. She mumbled around the chalky bits.

“Yep. It was fun.”

“Not for nothin’ I didn’t recognize you at first. You’re much prettier in person” He gave her another look in the mirror. “Yep much prettier. You filming anything now?”

“I leave for a project in three weeks, actually.” Jennifer cleared her throat, trying not to choke on the masticated residue of antacid pills and practically sighed in audible relief as she spied the theater up ahead. Digging in her purse for her wallet, she’d snagged a fifty by the time they skid to a halt before the front doors. “Here you go sir. Keep the change.”

“Hey thanks. And you, break a leg on that new film.” The cab driver, gave her a nod, winked in the mirror. Jennifer smiled, inadvertently charmed. “I’ll take the wife to the show, tell her I had the movie star daughter of one of the cast give her personal recommendation we see it.” 

“Thank you sir.” She slid out of the cab slamming the door shut, allowed a final glimpse of him peeling away as she turned toward the theater. It had been a while since she’d last visited her father backstage. Last show had been six years ago now as Jennifer recalled. As a kid, her favorite place in the world was backstage. Watching rehearsals, sneaking through the dressing rooms, she’d pretend she was under the spotlight on opening night. Tagging along with her father over the years, wide-eyed, trying to absorb everything she heard and saw, she’d become a bit of a backstage mascot. The names that glittered in lights along Broadway were the extended family of her childhood, Aunts, Uncles, babysitters and mentors not just Drama Desk and Tony winners. 

Really, she’d been impossible during those school years, trying to find ways to skip and go to the theater. Begging over and again for permission to audition for a part rather than attend a voice class on a Saturday afternoon. Her parents put a high price on education and it was a rare occasion that she got to play hooky for an impromptu take your daughter to work day. They’d wanted her to have every possible choice, every opportunity. Now all grown up, Jennifer found herself walking halls that were all too familiar as though time stood still. 

Saying hello to several of her father’s cast mates, Jennifer wound her way to his dressing room. Broadway was family, warm and friendly, welcoming her home on the holidays. Nothing was more important than family. Drawing up just outside the dressing room, she could hear the soft timbre of her father’s voice warming up for the evening show. She poked her head around the door eyes roaming over to the small, upright piano in the corner where he sat running through scales.

“Hey Dad.” She greeted, her voice soft, hesitant to disturb his concentration. Eyes shining behind wire rim glasses, Joel Grey looked up surprise bright in his seemingly ageless features. The stage had been a kind blessing to him. On it and off, he exuded an endless wealth of youth and vitality. Spritely was his most common characterization even in his advancing years and the inescapable resemblance between he and Jennifer was most notable in the irrepressible smirk that quirked his lips..

“Hey there kid.” He stood up opening his arms for a hug. Jennifer ducked into his embrace, warming immediately at the quick peck he dropped on her forehead. “What’s new and exciting?” He gestured for her to take a seat. Somehow, in addition to his dressing table and piano, the porters managed to squeeze a small sofa into the tiny dressing room. It was comfy for its diminutive size and Jennifer imagined her father sneaking naps on it between the matinee and evening show.

“Don Bradley called. I got the part. They want me on location in three weeks.” Jennifer beamed as she was pulled into another hug, accompanied by her father’s proud exclamations.

“That’s just wonderful. Tonight after the show we’ll celebrate, you and me, anywhere you like.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze.

“That will be great. Thanks Dad.” Jennifer managed a conflicted smile, as mixed with contradiction as the news of this role.

“Thought you’d be over the moon.” Joel pursed his lips, sitting back to examine worry troubling his daughter’s gaze. “Well, I know you aren’t having second thoughts. You loved it when you read it. You said …”

“That it was perfect for me and it is.” There was no disagreement there. The part was ideal. But how could she possibly prepare for it in three short weeks? “They’ve confirmed Patrick Swayze as my costar. He attended Joffrey, Dad. I can’t imagine what they must be expecting.” Joel nodded breathing a note of understanding.

“I see.” He pushed to his feet, scratching beard stubble as his eyes roamed over the surface of his dressing table. It was practically within reach from where they sat, Jennifer mused with a grin. Her father plunked down in front of the mirror and shifted a few things around with absent-minded determination. There was a dog-eared copy of the script and a scattered collection of makeup brushes. His fingers closed on a stubby pencil with a chewed eraser, a habit he’d unwittingly adapted since quitting smoking some years before. 

“Dad maybe I should …”

“You should take this name and go to …” Joel paused, squinting at the ceiling as though willing it to help him remember. “twenty-third and eighth ave.” He scribbled on a piece of scrap paper he’d fished from the odds and ends.

“Chelsea?” Jennifer arched a skeptical brow at his reflection. She tried to imagine how the gym-obsessed, boy toys of New York’s closeted men of high society would be of any help in this situation. “Dad, I don’t think …” Joel spun hopping to his feet as though half his age to perch on the edge of the sofa. He thrust the scrap of paper into Jennifer’s hand, closing her fingers around it with an affectionate pat.

“Trust your old Dad, kid. I’ll give a call and let them know to expect you.” Jennifer looked at the paper in her hand processing dubious feelings of apprehension and relief. She acquiesced to the knowledge that she placed her trust in not just her father, but one of Broadway’s living legends. If there was any one person capable of lending aid ...

“Thanks?” Jennifer murmured tentatively. She glanced up to give a wobbly smile of gratitude. … it was her Dad.

II.

Jennifer gazed up at the impressive scale of Penelope Jonson Dance Repertory, PJ’s or The Rep as it was most commonly and fondly referenced by the broader performance community. The building reminded Jennifer of the towering Gothic edifices of academia, silent, imposing, hinting at untold glories, secret knowledge. Dancers joked that you had to audition just to take a tour of the place. Clutching tight the slip of paper her father had given her, Jennifer climbed marble steps in a high arching vestibule that echoed with the busy city sounds behind her. Beyond it, a small brick courtyard opened up like a hidden fairytale. Peppered with flowering saplings and babbling fountains and cool paving stones rather than concrete, was so revealed a splendid oasis of sight and sound. Smooth walls delicately touched by vines of ivy stretched out and forward toward the repertory building. Knots of dancers lounged on wooden benches and garden patches, reinforcing the ambiance for all their appearance as woodland sprites. Jennifer eyed the idle athletic bodies in warm-ups as they chatted, smoked, snacked on bagged lunches. Their conversations echoed around her and she swallowed down apprehension to make her way towards the front doors.

Just beyond the entrance, the foyer was significant, elegant to say the least. According to her father, the building had once been a five star hotel, built in the early 1900s. It was an architectural marvel at the time. It was an association the building retained in its current tenure as a dance repertory of some note in Manhattan. Sculptural depictions of dancers bade welcome and drew her into a gleaming expanse. Just above, an open second floor tier, hugged by double arching staircases boasted imperious portraits with plaques bearing the names of contributors, history makers. Jennifer spun in place and gazed even further beyond, up to a stunning skylight made breathlessly gaudy by the cloudless blue expanse above. It was as though she were looking, awestruck and half-blind upon the oculus of a Grecian temple. Here was the patron goddess of dance, rendered in metal, reaching high above the heads of her penitents. Hopes or prayers or simple wishes wandering her heart in that moment, here Jennifer would pursue their answers.

“Need some help?” Jennifer turned and blinked refocusing on a young boy with an athletic bag slung over his shoulder. He grinned at her and repeated. “Do you need some help finding something?”

“Oh yeah.” Jennifer smiled and gestured with the piece of paper. “I’m looking for J. Jonson Haussemen.”

“Oh sure. I can take you to the masters studios. AD Haussemen’s office is up there. Her assistant will be able to help you.” Jennifer tracked dutifully after the youngster. He was slim, and moved with the obvious grace inherent dancers, many of whom they passed as they climbed stairs to the second tier. Down a broad hallway was a bank of elevators where they joined a crowd of chattering students. 

“This place is incredible.” She remarked.

“Hey Tony!” The boy turned and waved to a young girl dressed in warm-ups and the ever present bun. She was accompanied by what appeared to be her somewhat disapproving mother.

“Hey Amelia.” The boy smiled shyly, then turned back to Jennifer. “Yep, this place is huge. I still get lost sometimes and I’ve been coming here since I was a kid.” Jennifer smirked, amused.

“How old are you?”

“Twelve and a half.” Tony broadened his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “AD Gjokaj says that if I can gain another four inches this year, I’ll be ready to take a masters series next fall.”

“Wow. That’s impressive.” Jennifer stepped into the elevator as the doors slid open in front of them. Several of the students squeezed with notable exception of the young girl and her mother. Tony shrugged punching the button for the sixth floor.

“Are you seeing AD Haussemen about an apprenticeship?” Tony inquired, curiosity mixed with awe crossing his features. “I hear it’s the most difficult placement in the entire repertory. Only the best students get selected and half of them are cut before the end of the first year.” Jennifer blanched. Her father hadn’t mentioned that. In fact, he’d only offered enough information to suggest that she could expect the assistance of someone who’d help her prepare adequately for the role of an amateur dancer. Tony informed with the quiet respect of the pious, “Four of American Ballet Theater’s current Principle dancers came through that program.”

“That’s … wow.” She mumbled. “Actually I’m not a dancer. I’m an actress.”

“Oh …” Tony pursed his lips thinking that over, then eyes wide with excitement, “Do you know Arnold Schwarzenegger?” Jennifer chuckled.

“No. I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting him.”

“Oh.” Tony murmured sounding a bit disappointed. The elevator pinged for the sixth floor and Tony led her down the hallway and into the door of a reception area for a fairly large office suite. “Well, here you are.” He said gesturing ahead to the receptionist. “She’ll be able to help you from here.”

“Thanks a bunch. It was awfully nice of you to help me out.” Jennifer smiled, extending her hand. “I’m Jennifer, by the way.”

“No problem Jennifer.” Tony shook her hand enthusiastically. “Hey, if you ever meet Arnold Schwartzenegger, will you get him to send me an autograph?”

“I’ll do what I can.” Jennifer grinned. “Who shall I have him send it to?”

“Anthony Rapp.” Tony offered one last smile and a small wave before hefting his bag over his shoulder and disappearing back the way they’d come.

“Cute kid.” Jennifer murmured. She stepped further into the reception area, glancing at the furnishings. More portraits, this time black and white photos of dancers on stage. Several students sat in an assortment of fairly modern looking though not seemingly comfortable chairs. The name plate outside the suite had suggested these offices belonged to three different Assistant Directors including AD Hausseman with whom Jennifer was scheduled to meet. Expecting obvious boredom or impatience given the sharp look that met her greeting, Jennifer offered a weary hello to the receptionist. She glanced at the name plate on the desk, “Gail. My name is Jennifer Grey. I have an appointment with J. Jonson Haussemen.” The receptionist brightened, a warm smile transforming the previously pinched features behind a pair of red-rimmed spectacles matching bright, glossy lips. She quickly slipped out from behind the partition that housed her desk.

“Hello Ms. Grey, welcome.” She shook Jennifer’s hand and gestured for her to follow. “Assistant Director Haussemen is expecting you. Helena?” Gail turned to a student in the waiting area. A girl in her early twenties looked up from a textbook she was avidly paging through, a pen between pursed lips. “Please see to the phones. I’ll return momentarily.”

“Yes, Ms.” The girl readily nodded, jumping to her feet to attend the request. Gail returned her attention to Jennifer, gesturing to the door. “Right this way.”

Beyond a handful of other similarly equipped office suites, the lengthy sixth floor hallway offered a collection of dance studios. As they passed, Jennifer peaked in through the windows to watch classes in progress. She immediately understood what Tony meant when he’d referred to the floor as the Masters studios. She watched the grace and skill displayed by dancers she observed. These were students? This is what she presumed she’d see after paying two hundred dollars for an evening at the Met.

“Here we are Ms. Grey, and it seems right on time.” Gail remarked as they approached a door where a swarm of students were already departing. Jennifer noted the somewhat haggard look on the faces as they pulled warm-ups over sweat soaked tights and leotards. She listened absently catching snatches of whispered griping from one or two walking past. “This is AD Haussemen’s studio. I have to run back to see to the phones. Please do not hesitate to stop back by the office if you need anything.” Gail smiled politely excusing herself. Jennifer had a slight moment of panic, quickly reigned in as the last student slipped by her, leaving her pretty much alone. Now or never, she thought, pulling the door open and striding inside.

It was what one typically envisioned in a dance studio, hardwood floors, mirrors, an upright piano occupying an out of the way corner. The pianist had slipped out with the students and all that remained was a young girl stretching at a parallel bar. Jennifer scanned the walls expecting a door where perhaps this Assistant Director Hausseman may have slipped away. But for a shining bank of windows and empty space, she searched to no avail. Halting her exercise, the girl looked up to meet Jennifer’s eye, and the air in the room noticeably cooled. Arching a delicate brow, she was a stereotype with her impeccable coif and rigid posture. Pulling a shrug and a simple pair of sweats out of her dance gear, the girl momentarily turned her attention away.   
“How may I help you?” She called with a touch of impatience. Her body bent as she stepped into the sweats and Jennifer noted she was tall and thin and very likely not even out of her teens. Nevertheless, her movements were practiced, graceful, hypnotic.  
“Hi!” Jennifer called stepping across the room. “Um, I’m looking for the … for the teacher. The uh, AD that is. Um, J. Jonson Haussemen, you know?” The girl turned as she pulled on her shrug leveling an assessing gaze. Her expression was blank as though she were sizing up an interloper. Jennifer marveled at how dancers always seemed to move so effortlessly. The girl virtually glided over, extending a slim hand.

“I’m AD Haussemen. Everyone calls me JJ. You must be Ms. Grey.” Jennifer’s eyes flicked up from their clasped hands in unbidden surprise. Underneath this whisp of a girl there was a teacher lurking, the kind of teacher that left students grumbly and exhausted, barely capable of dragging themselves wearily on to their next destination. Fascinating.

“I’m …”Jennifer’s mouth worked for a moment as she tried to formulate a response to the knowing smile spreading across JJ’s lips. “I’m .. yes I am.” She shook her hand lightly and without a moment’s thought asked. “You’re … how old?”

“Fifteen, yes fifteen and that was in fact my name on the office you just came from.” JJ released Jennifer’s hand, and with a roll of her eyes preempted the anticipated next question. “I finished my apprenticeship two years ago and auditioned for an empty slot that had come open in the masters instructorship this year. While I’d always intended to wait until after my professional career to take on any teaching duties, I was encouraged to pursue the placement and subsequently voted into my current position as Assistant Director by students and peers.” Jennifer appeared flummoxed to which JJ grinned, “You don't really want to hear my resume, do you?"

“No I … I guess I’m just a bit surprised. I was expecting someone …”

“Yeah I know, everyone does.” JJ dismissed this with a careless wave of her hand. “So,” JJ placed hands on hips, balancing lightly on tip toes to stretch her calves, “Mr. Grey contacted my office and explained that you’re looking for a dance instructor to prepare you for an upcoming role.”

“Yes … I, uh, I didn’t realize at the time he’d be pointing me towards one of the Assistant Directors of PJDR. I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

“Don’t be. Mr. Grey is a highly respected colleague of our Director. It’s my pleasure to help in any way I can.” JJ dropped back on to her heels, gave Jennifer a quirky, lopsided grin and nodded toward the floor. “Alright then, show me what you got.” JJ did that hypnotic half walking half gliding thing clear across the floor to slide behind the piano. Jennifer blinked, dumbfounded as opening notes of … was that Tchaikovsky, tinkled their way back to her ears.

“Uh,” Jennifer cleared her throat raising her voice to be heard over the music. “I don’t … that is …” JJ looked up from the piano without pausing.

“I have to know what I’m working with Ms. Grey. You gotta show me something. Perhaps a change of tune?” JJ easily transitioned into a swing number that Jennifer had to admit encouraged her to tap her foot. Nonetheless …

“AD Haussemen …”

“JJ, is fine.” JJ gazed back at her expectantly. “Anything at all, if you please.” Closing her eyes, ears already coloring with embarrassment, Jennifer stepped into the middle of the studio and commenced to … well, it wasn’t exactly the results of any formal dance training. Moments later, the music came to an abrupt halt and Jennifer opened her eyes. The expression she was greeted with on JJ’s face wasn’t what she would call encouraging. It was blank, much like the look she’d received when Jennifer first set foot in the studio unraveling a mystery in a name her father had written on a scrap of paper.

“I …” Jennifer mumbled, “don’t really ... know what to do. Not really.” JJ arched that delicate brow of hers, slipping from behind the piano and walked right past Jennifer. Perfect, Jennifer thought. I’m beyond assistance. What option was left her now? She would show up on set in three weeks, make a fool of herself, and be summarily fired. She stood awkwardly in the middle of the floor, mind racing, and watched as JJ well … stalked over to a small intercom box located near the studio entrance. Holding down the talk button, she called impatiently, “Gail?”

“Yes AD. Haussemen.” The voice of the main receptionist bounced off of the hard wood floors to Jennifer’s ears.

“I’ll need my master studio exclusively for the next three weeks. Tell any of the apprentices that have projects or on-going practices here to see you about scheduling other studio space.” Gail murmured affirmative noises in the background as JJ continued without so much as pausing to draw breath. “Have one of the interns clear the graduate studio at the end of the hall, then have Professor Kent cover my morning classes there as she has those periods free. Call Proffesor Ferrar and have her cover my evening classes in the first floor symposium space.” JJ sighed with some consternation as though she could foresee the disruption her instructions would inspire among her students. “Please make sure they both receive copies of my syllabi so the students remain focused. Inform them that my absence is not to be treated as a vacation and they shall expect practical exams on time upon my return.”

“Yes AD. Haussemen.” JJ turned to look Jennifer up and down as she continued.

“Have one of the interns go to the pro shop and pick up dance wear and warm-ups in a size two, a pair of pointes and a pair of pumps in a size …” JJ paused glancing at Jennifer’s feet, “six, and a box of athletic tape. I’m also going to need a shake up here.”

“Yes AD. Haussemen.”

“Five minutes ago Gail.” JJ turned away from the intercom and raised an impetuous brow.  
“It will do you well to remember, Ms. Grey, not all dance is choreography. Some of it, you just feel. Let’s get started, shall we?”

 

III.

“Hold.” Jennifer pursed her lips. She could feel a single drop of perspiration creeping steadily down her spine. The weight of that saline bead felt colossal, as though it alone wrestled against the carefully crafted arch that pulled mercilessly on her abdomen and gravely pushed against chest and shoulders. She lifted her chin higher focusing just beyond her fingertips. She could feel a tremble threatening in the bow of her arms but much like the voice behind her insisted, she would -  
“Hold it, Ms. Grey.” She felt fingertips brush between her shoulder blades. “Relax the face. No one wants to see how difficult this is.” Jennifer struggled to obtain a more neutral, less harried expression. “And open.” Obediently, she let her arms draw wide imagining the wings of a bird taking flight. She could feel the tightening of the muscles across her breast bone as she stretched far as her body would allow and felt the yearning in her limbs to reach for something farther still. So many positions in dance felt like unfulfilled ambition. Wind rippled through the feathers of the bird in flight, delicate like the line of her neck, her torso, her hips. She tried not to let her weight settle in her legs. It was aloft, soaring. She tried not to focus on the burning in her calves and thighs. Those were human ailments of earthbound limbs. She tried, instead, to fly, to -  
“Hold!” Focus shivered despite the firmness of the command. Jennifer wanted so to comply though her muscles begged for rest. She could feel the taut ribbon of her control ripple as her breath fought its way in and out of her lungs. Soon, the inarticulate promise of recovery and ease, ticked ever closer. But first, first she would hold. “… and,” with a soft tap against her lower back at last the command to, “Release.” Standing straight, Jennifer gazed forward and couldn’t help but smile as JJ stepped into view. “Beautiful.”

“Thanks Jayj.” Jennifer blushed. Shaking out her arms and legs, she loosely tried out a couple of positions. Watching JJ sweep across the floor to flip through her schedule. Jennifer had learned very early that JJ was meticulous. She kept lists for her lists, and when it came to teaching dance, every word that passed from JJ’s lips had been written, rewritten and questioned for validity many times before it reached a student’s ears. In over a week of twelve hour sessions, Jennifer had been led through countless syllabi of JJ’s very own design. When asked about the well-worn, leather-bound notebook she carried with her nearly everywhere, JJ had replied, “I’ve been a student of dance all my life. These are my notes.” 

Where other girls her age presumably kept a diary detailing the particulars of who wore what to the dance, JJ kept a pinpoint specific journal of every workout, every brainstorm or idea, every movement she happened upon and wished to incorporate somewhere. It was a touch more than impressive when Jennifer first came to comprehend the import of what JJ created every day through her studiousness. It began to explain how this fifteen year old girl was teaching dancers twice her age in a masters class. It also lent a bit more weight to her being reputedly difficult to please. In JJ’s mind, the driving force of dance may be passion, but the machine was pure Science and every branch of Science operated by formula. Practice, invention, hard work were variables that she juggled adroitly.

Invariably, JJ found her stamina was matched by very few. It was a conception angled to prove. She just held a general complaint against boundaries placed on human capability. When met by arguments from her students that a movement was too fast, too high, too difficult, she’d insist, “We are meant to evolve, not stagnate. Get busy.” As such, she didn’t mete out offhanded praise. In fact, she was anything but generous when it came to the words, good job, unless they were truly meant. Many took that to mean she was impossible to please. However for those who’d received such acknowledgment, it came with the unshakable confidence that it was both well-deserved and genuine.

For Jennifer, meeting JJ’s expectations was a laurel she was anxious yet to receive. Thus far, she’d been offered stern looks bordering on disappointment and curt words of encouragement. That one simple word, beautiful, and the accompanying smile was an oasis after so many days limping through the most difficult exertions she’d ever undertaken in her life. Her mornings began at four AM. She met JJ in Central Park no later than five for endurance training. In her mind, Jennifer thought she was pretty fit. She periodically jogged and swam to stay active. JJ, however, ran - as in, ten miles in the morning, weighted at the ankle and wrist. That first morning, Jennifer’s confidence had lagged halfway through the second mile. How was she going to do this?

After the park and a light breakfast, because JJ insisted Jennifer immediately adopt a very strict plan to help boost her energy and build muscle, it was right to the studio. Four hours were spent on the foundations of dance, she held aching positions endlessly, muscles twitching with a burning fire. It was torturous and she more limped than walked down to the cafeteria in the basement of PJ’s to replenish afterward. She ate a lunch heavy in energetic carbs, then upstairs to the fourth floor gymnasium for weight training. The gym was two brutal hours of machines and exercises with free weights she’d never imagined in her life. The first day JJ had her hang upside down, grasp a ten pound medicine ball and try to curl up and tap it against her toes, she’d laughed out loud. The laughter had succinctly died from her lips by that night as she soaked in a tub full of ice. She’d paid an obscene amount of money to have ten bags delivered from a bodega one block from her apartment building. Her legs and butt and abs had collectively deemed the walk nonnegotiable.

After the gym, they grabbed a high protein snack, then back to the studio where her four hour afternoon lesson included many different styles of dance. In addition to the Arthur Murray ballroom technique she required for the part, she’d learned everything from classical to modern to indigenous dance movements by continent. JJ insisted that it didn’t hurt to possess a well-stocked toolkit just in case one was ever called upon to improvise. JJ being a wealth of on the spot adages, enlightened Jennifer that the core of improvisation is honing one’s instincts with the knowledge of all the possible steps, not one, not some, but all. 

By eight, if Jennifer was responding well to instruction and JJ wasn’t focused on whatever infinitesimal but detrimental detail Jennifer could not seem to absorb, they’d call it quits. JJ would spend an hour running through Yoga asanas, diligently stretching taxed muscles before bidding Jennifer free to take her leave. She warned that it was of the utmost importance that a dancer stretch before and after any workout to prevent injury. “Injuries end careers, Ms. Grey.” She’d intone ominously. Nine o’clock would roll around and so would the end of their day. Exhaustion was a new constant companion. That first lesson, JJ had simply bid her good night, gruffly insisting Jennifer get some much-needed rest. Since then Jennifer regularly insisted JJ join her for dinner. Dinner was never anything fancier than what they found in the ground floor cafeteria. Thanks to JJ’s key-holding privileges, sneaking into the kitchen to make salads and grab diet sodas was an easily accomplished caper. They’d take their pilfered meal and sit out on the courtyard under the stars to snack and chat.

It was one such night. Arms behind her head the dwindling warmth of the day soaking into her back, JJ stretched out over the courtyard stones to gaze up at the sky. She spoke just above a whisper as though scared to disturb the attentive sense of peace in the courtyard. Just beyond the recessed stone entryway the bawdy night time theme of Manhattan screamed full blast. But in here, they were peacefully ensconced a world away. A soft breeze rushed through sapling leaves stirring up the scent of jasmine. The fountains gurgled, as though murmuring in assent to JJ’s thoughts spoken aloud.

“I think we should finish out the week with a bit of jazz improvisation. It will be good for your dance portfolio. It certainly won’t hurt. Also, I was looking at your stats in the gym and I’m a little concerned about your core strength. You really have to stay focused there, Ms. Grey. Core strength is imperative for the balance and control necessary in a lift.” JJ rubbed her nose with her palm, her voice trailing off for a moment, then snapping back to attention. “You can’t forget next week when you get on set to keep up with your regimen. I’ve been thinking about redesigning what we’ve been doing around the shooting schedule. I could gear your training towards specific movements in the choreography. Have you heard anything from the DP about call times?” JJ stopped, waiting for a response and when Jennifer didn’t offer any, she turned her head to give her student a look of curious expectation. Jennifer sat nearby legs crossed in front of her, resting back on her elbows. She tilted her head to glance over at JJ, eyes half-lidded in contentment. “Ms. Grey?”

“It’s so peaceful here Jayj. I begin to understand what you mean when you talk about how so many things contribute to dance.” Jennifer murmured as though she hadn’t heard JJ’s question. “This space is incredibly meditative. It’s hard sometimes to forget about everything that’s held in the balance. It all matters but sometimes … I just want to feel the movement” Jennifer blinked, as though returning to herself. “Jayj, we’ve been working together nearly two weeks. You think maybe you can call me Jen outside of the studio at least?” Amused, Jennifer watched as a blush traveled up JJ’s neck to the tips of her ears.

“Yes, of course - Jen.” JJ sat up, her shoulder brushing against Jennifer’s. Legs crossed and elbows on her knees, JJ steadied herself with a deep breath and stated with quiet conviction, “I’m really quite astounded by all you’ve managed to accomplish in so short a time. You’re going to be … amazing in the movie.”

“Wow.” Jennifer grinned, and bumped their shoulders in a playful nudge. “This is unprecedented. Two compliments in one evening?”

“I … well, I know I don’t often say it but,” JJ paused nodding her affirmation, “your diligence has impressed me and I’m honored to have had the opportunity to work with you.” JJ continued, glancing momentarily down at her hands folded neatly in her lap. It wasn’t often that she found herself feeling quite so tentative. Jennifer reached over to brush an errant lock of hair from JJ’s face. The girl’s delicate features and long waves of raven hair made her seem a princess in a secret glade filling the pages between once upon a time and happily ever after. Jennifer swallowed at an unexpected response deep underneath her own ribs to a blossoming rose of warmth underneath her fingertips. She pulled her hand away, startled.

“I’m deeply honored to have had the opportunity to learn so much from you.” Jennifer remarked, feeling a bit off kilter.

“You’ve worked quite hard and done well.” JJ tilted her head, shyness causing the blush to reassert itself on her cheeks. “And it’s not just your hard work I was referring to earlier this evening.” JJ’s gaze dropped back to her hands. “You are, you know … beautiful.”

“Why J. Jonson Haussemen,” Jennifer beamed, then leaned over and brushed her lips against the girl’s burning cheek. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.” JJ looked up stunned, eyes locked on Jennifer’s just long enough for Jennifer to worry at the possible impropriety of the moment they shared. “You truly are incredible Jayj, all that you’ve accomplished.”

“Please don’t say for someone so young.” JJ frowned. “I’d really prefer you didn’t think of me like ...”

“Like?” Jennifer repeated amusement tingeing her voice. “Your accomplishments aren’t diminished by your age Jayj. They are accented by it.”

“Yes but I don’t want to just be some kid to you.” JJ muttered, folding her arms over her chest. Jennifer found herself astounded and a bit charmed by something JJ probably wasn’t accustomed to doing - pout..

“Hey.” Jennifer coaxed. JJ grasped the finger under her chin, turning on her own to meet Jennifer’s gaze. “You’ll never be just some kid. You’re my dance instructor, the best around.” JJ pursed her lips trying unsuccessfully not to grin. 

“You bet your lucky ass.” JJ muttered ruefully. Jennifer laughed throwing an arm around thin shoulders and pulled the girl close in a companionable one-armed squeeze.

“Enough about regimens and training for once.” Jennifer leaned back against one of the larger saplings under which they’d chosen to rest. JJ, settled snugly against her side, attempted a half-hearted protest not at all eager to disturb the languorous mood that seemed to suffuse their evening.

“But we still have so much …”

“Work to do.” Jennifer finished for her and shrugged unconcerned, “I know. But I rather hear about you than about what further tortures you have planned for my remaining instruction.”

“Well,” JJ hedged.

“Come on, Jayj. Tell me something I don’t know about being a dance prodigy.” JJ huffed, rolling her eyes at Jennifer’s not entirely inaccurate if teasing portrayal.

“I come from a long line of dancers.” JJ offered. Though the story was likely rote to JJ, Jennifer’s interest was immediately piqued. “In fact there are more dancers in my family tree than much anything else.” JJ counted off on her fingers, “On one side, my mom and her mom and my aunt all trained from the time they were kids to dance, like me. My grandmother never really had the chance to dance professionally. She was injured early in her career, broken ankle.” JJ snapped her fingers. “That was it. Years of training, hopes and dreams ended in a moment.” JJ shook her head, dismayed. “I never met her. She died before I was born, breast cancer. My Mom always says that even though she never took the stage again, she was one of the greatest dancers of her time. I believe her. She taught my aunt and my mother everything she knew about dance and they taught me from the time I could walk practically.” Jennifer nodded, visibly impressed.

“And your father, is he a dancer?” JJ shook her head in response.

“No, my biological father isn’t a dancer but his mom was professionally trained and danced a short time on the stage before she married.”

“Biological father?” Jennifer inquired, “Are you … that is ...?”

“Adopted?” JJ shook her head. “No, not exactly.” JJ gave a wobbly smile, a momentary panic settling into her eyes. “I have two moms.” She confessed. She watched the puzzled expression turn to comprehension on Jennifer’s face. 

“Oh … oh!” Jennifer nodded, with a careless shrug. A family with same-sex parents wasn’t exactly earth-shattering news. After all, she’d grown up on Broadway. Apparently JJ was far more accustomed to receiving negative reactions to this information. 

“And your parents, what do they do?” Jennifer prodded.

“Well technically, both of my Mom’s teach dance, but only one of them does so for a living.” JJ replied, relief evident in her voice at Jennifer’s unspoken acceptance. “Penelope Jonson in fact.”

“That’s quite a legacy to carry.” Jennifer remarked. She’d had a sneaking suspicion there was some familial relation given JJ’s middle name. She’d refrained from inquiry for fear of implying the suspicion of nepotism. After all, fifteen year old Assistant Director and masters class instructor of one of the most prestigious dance repertories in the country, one tends to wonder if there’s more than talent at work. Of course, nearly two weeks on the receiving end of JJ’s relentless instruction had convinced her soundly otherwise.

“I know.” JJ shrugged. “My burden to bear, I suppose.”

“So Penelope is …?”

“Penelope is my biological mom.” Jennifer grinned.

“You have a knack for finishing my sentences.” 

“It’s what most people ask.” JJ continued. “Ma has nothing like Mom’s dance background. I don’t know much about her parents only that they weren’t dancers. Her mom died when she was a baby and her father, well …” Pausing, a dark look passed over JJ’s face before she offered tightly “Ma was on her own by the time she was my age. Everything she’s achieved has been on her terms.” With no small amount of pride JJ added, “She’s the greatest dancer I know. She’d still be doing stage shows if she wasn’t running the repertory.”

“And your other mother?” Jennifer asked with no small amount of curiosity.

“Frances Haussemen is my birth mom. Even though Mom, Frances, grew up dancing, she chose to pursue a different career.” Jennifer tried to imagine what would prompt a woman who’d trained her entire youth as a dancer to decline a career in dance.

“What does she do?” 

“She’s a doctor … and a lawyer, actually.” JJ explained, pride for her mother in her voice. “She advocates for women’s reproductive health legislation and has a Surgical Obstetrics and Gynecology practice.”

“Your family doesn’t exactly lack for high achievers.” JJ snuggled closer under a breeze, and Jennifer sat up long enough to unzip her hooded sweatshirt. She sat back when it was wrapped around JJ’s shoulders. JJ smiled in gratitude, settling comfortably. “What about school? I imagine there must be pretty high academic hopes for you as well.” JJ considered the question, a thoughtful expression crossed her features as she remembered

“You imagine right. When I was entering first grade, Mom worked tirelessly to get me into this posh private school. Oh what was it?” JJ snapped her fingers, then laughingly, “Dalton.”

“I went to Dalton.” Jennifer grinned. “And yes I know, definitely posh.”

“Yeah, so I remember being miserable because I wouldn’t be spending every hour of every day dancing any more. And I just couldn’t bear it, the first day sitting in that classroom with a bunch of kids who were still trying to figure out their ABCs.” JJ shook her head. “I’d never had trouble learning. I was well ahead of my levels in reading and math. Mom was an awesome teacher, even working full time. And Ma was ruthless about me keeping up with lessons. She said she wanted me to be smarter than she’d been about school.” JJ smiled, thinking back. “Besides I loved reading. I figured why wait for someone else when there were so many things I could teach myself. I just didn’t understand the point of school. It was frustrating for me.”

“I felt the same as a kid. I always wanted to be an actor. I wanted to be on stage or watching my Dad on stage.” Jennifer agreed. “Dalton was good for me though. I got to participate in theater and even dance there.”

“It wasn’t for me.” JJ confided. “I went home after that first day and sat my parents down, terribly serious. I remember thinking that I had to be utterly adult and let them know in no uncertain terms that they had to listen to me. I had on my grown up face and I told them simply, I’m not going back. Period.” Jennifer chuckled, imagining a miniature version of JJ with the same intense focus, determined to let her parents know she had no intentions of returning to school.

“How’d they take that revelation?”

“Not well, at least not initially.” JJ admitted, laughing. “I figured though that if I didn’t cry or whine or shout and just kept explaining how I felt with my very best words, eventually they’d listen. I also just wouldn’t let them argue with me about it. As soon as they tried to be typical parents and tell me I had to simply because they said so, I’d put my foot down and say, “That’s not a reason.” I told them dance classes are more important than sitting in a classroom and there was nothing they could say to change my mind about that. I told them I needed someone to teach me lessons like Mom had instead of going to school so that I could spend as much of my time as possible learning how to be a great dancer.” JJ shook her head. “I also told them that the rest of the kids at school were all way behind what I learned with Mom anyway so going to school couldn’t possibly be better than staying home. Honestly, I think that was the argument that convinced them far more than my reticence about the whole school issue. That was a long night, I remember. I couldn’t sleep and I snuck out of bed and listened to them arguing outside the door to their bedroom. I kept thinking I’d just run away and live at the repertory if they continued to say no.” JJ laughed and Jennifer joined in. “Can you imagine?”

“Not the most well thought out plan but you were only five after all.” Jennifer couldn’t shake the irrepressible feelings of awe. It was impressive to say the least, a five year old with that level of self-possession and drive. “Well obviously they capitulated.”

“Much to my relief.” JJ sighed as though reliving the contentment she’d felt at the end of those strained hours within her family. “The next day they were interviewing tutors to instruct me in between dance lessons at here at the Rep. I never thought about it back then but they must have lost a fortune pulling me out of Dalton at the beginning of the school year like that. But I’ve never doubted their support since.” 

“It’s more than paid off in their favor.” Jennifer offered the praise easily though JJ gave only a humble shrug in deference. “And these last ten years?”

“This mostly,” JJ gestured loosely toward the building. “I sat for my GED when I turned thirteen. By then, I’d already been dancing professionally for three years - Broadway, television, film, you name it. Last year I was offered a spot as a principle at ABT.” JJ paused, “That was the first time my parents said no when it came to my career. They said I was far too young to be touring. Ma, Penelope, told me I had plenty of time to be a principle for a company but I didn’t have a lot of time left to be a kid.” JJ rolled her eyes. “I can’t say I agreed with that argument but I accepted their decision and entered my apprenticeship here instead. I don’t think this is exactly what Ma had in mind but I’m pretty happy.”

“What will you do next?”

“I think when my term as AD is up at the end of the year, I’ll apply to college, pursue a degree in choreography and dance theory. NYU maybe.” JJ grinned, “I think Ma will be stoked if I at least have the quintessential college experience.”

“Keggers and flip cup tournaments?” Jennifer shook her head, “I missed out there. I spent those years chasing after my big break.”

“And here you thought carrying around this dance legacy of mine was a lot of pressure.” JJ smirked. “I think we’re probably pulling even there.”

“You might be right. I’m learning how to dance for a concept movie that could just as likely not be the beginning of my acting career.” Jennifer gave a weighty sigh at the thought. They lapsed into silence, gazing again at the stars. After a while, Jennifer couldn’t help but notice JJ shivering in the diminished temperature of what was now fairly the middle of the night. With a poignant quirk of her lips, “It’s late. I guess we should ...” JJ gave a reluctant sigh but nodded sitting up to stretch. Rising fluidly to her feet, she held her hand out to Jennifer who gave an ill-disguised squeal as she was easily hauled upward and nearly overbalanced. The girl was deceptively strong. “Walk you home?” Grinning, JJ lifted her chin at the repertory building. 

“I am home.”

“Oh?” Eyebrow arched in disbelief, Jennifer fell into step next to JJ who drew to a stop at the front entrance. Pointing to the very top of the building twelve stories above their heads, JJ explained.

“I live with my parents on the top floor. It’s one of the few floors in the building that retains much of the original design from when it was the penthouse of the hotel.” JJ paused, “Maybe you could …” Eyes gazing up from soft lashes, JJ smiled, her body seemingly magnetized as Jennifer could nearly perceive a curiously strong force pulling her imperceptibly forward.

“I better go.” Jennifer leaned back, almost physically having to shake herself free. She took a generous step in the direction of the street, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

“Yeah sure.” JJ gave a shrug, her expression wistful. She relinquished the sweatshirt Jennifer had in so thoughtful a gesture placed around her shoulders. “See you tomorrow.” Watching her disappearance into the shadows of the empty building, Jennifer closed her eyes for a moment, willing herself to reengage the practical part of her brain that didn’t lend thoughtful consideration to making out with teenagers. Her heart giving a resigned kick, she turned, weariness settling into her body reminding her, tomorrow was another day.

 

IV.

“And five, six, seven, eight!” The rhythmic tapping of JJ’s heel echoed through the studio soon accompanied by the energetic ragtime strains of Cole Porter’s Anything Goes. Earlier that afternoon, Jennifer had finished a snack and dressed for her last movement class with mild trepidation. JJ had a look in her eyes all day that read as one thing for Jennifer, pain. As that look promised, JJ had been waiting eagerly the moment Jennifer had walked through the studio door. 

“Warm-up.” She’d said with such undisguised glee that Jennifer had graced her with a fairly lengthy look. Lengthy enough, in fact, that what Jennifer liked to refer to as JJ’s Terminator face had quickly clouded over the girl’s impatient features. That was motivation enough to temporarily disguise her curiosity and obediently set to the exercises JJ had taught to loosen and lengthen the muscles in preparation for their workouts. Subsequently, JJ had informed Jennifer that this final lesson would be dedicated to several sequences of movement Penelope had co-choreographed for the Broadway revival of Porter’s 1934 musical. JJ, it would seem, had a particularly soft heart for musicals. She’d seen them all growing up and the revival of Anything Goes had been the first time she actually had the opportunity to participate as an assistant to her mother in revitalizing the show’s choreography. JJ had gotten to help brainstorm and construct movement that was being performed every night in front of 1100 breathless patrons of the Vivian Beaumont Theater in Lincoln Center. Her heart raced and her dampened palms twitched every time that striking fact drifted into her attention. 

Four far from swift hours following her warm-up, Jennifer had lost count how many times JJ had called a halt, shouting, “Again!” She counted out the cadence, the heel of her tap shoes a confident starting gun for her fingers to run adroitly across piano keys. She peered across the shiny surface of the baby grand, sporadically calling the cadence or encouraging, “Extend!” or “Watch your line on that turn Ms. Grey.” It would seem, Jennifer thought pragmatically, despite the events of the previous evening within the confines of this studio she’d ever be Ms. Grey and not Jen to JJ.

“Kindly listen to the rhythm Ms. Grey. Please!” JJ urged and continued to play. Jennifer tried to breathe deep and keep up with the music. The choreography was not easy and had tangled into a writhing mass of ball changes, crossovers, and flourishes in her head. She couldn’t move without thinking, couldn’t think without moving, and altogether couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a breath. Her focus took a significant downward turn as she detected movement out of the corner of her eye. Letting her gaze drift from her mark mid pirouette, she glanced toward the doorway. She had but an instant to note her efforts had gained the observation of what she could only describe as an incomparably gorgeous woman standing just inside the doors before she overbalanced and stumbled mid step. The music halted with an aggrieved sigh. “Must we review information we covered two weeks ago at the beginning of your lessons Ms. Grey?” JJ inquired with a distinct note of exasperation.

“I …” Jennifer flushed biting back a retort. She’d learned an early lesson that her spontaneous fits of temper and JJ’s intemperate expressions of frustration were a poor mix. 

“Stand. Up. Straight. I prefer not to have to repeat the simplest instructions.” JJ stepped in close, expression flat, her lips a taut line. She placed her hands under Jennifer’s elbows and raised her arms several inches. “This is your first position. Not the ragged mess you keep showing me. You’ll do it right or you’ll do it again.” JJ stepped away, circling. Jennifer huffed, trying to concentrate on extending her arms and straightening her legs. A sound of frustration behind her and she felt hands on her hips adjusting her stance and on her back adjusting her posture, again.

“I’m sorry JJ, can’t we just take a short break.” Jennifer cringed at her own voice, it was nothing if not a bit wheedling. She dropped her arms turning to look JJ in the eye. “Please?”

“A break?” Incredulous, JJ stepped forward into Jennifer’s space. “First. Position.” The light girlish quality of her voice was gone. It had been eroded away over the last few hours to the steel that now remained. “We don’t have time for a break because I have three short weeks to teach you how to dance.” JJ paused, pointedly adjusting Jennifer’s arms into the right shape. “We don’t have time for a break because if you are going to learn to be a dancer then every moment of these three weeks has to be spent working.” With quick, practiced movements, JJ adjusted Jennifer’s hips then lifted the other woman’s chin.

“For fuck’s sake Jayj what’s five minutes?” Jennifer muttered.

“It’s my time. That’s what it is.” JJ retorted finally stepping back to cross her arms over her chest. Anger bloomed in crimson across her cheeks and flashed in her eyes. “If you want to learn how to BE a dancer than you’ll respect what I choose to do with - My Time. However, if you’d prefer, instead, to BE lazy and learn how to ACT like a dancer, then find someone else with the time to instruct you and stop wasting mine.” Jennifer dropped her arms, eyes narrowing. Lazy? She’d been destroying herself trying to keep up with these workouts and learn these movements. How could anyone possibly consider her lazy given the level of commitment and willingness she’d demonstrated thus far?

“I’ve done every single thing you’ve asked, you snotty little bitch.” Jennifer emphasized, her hands drawing into fists held stiffly at her sides. “How about you take a moment of your precious time and give my efforts the recognition they deserve given your insane fucking demands!” It only took an instant for Jennifer to regret her words, immediately feeling her temper deflate into guilt. She watched as the anger fled from JJ’s face quickly chased by something she found herself surprised to see cast so blatantly over the girl’s features - hurt. “Shit.” She murmured as JJ turned on her heel and walked briskly from the studio; but not before Jennifer caught the beginnings of tears gathering in shocked blue. Jennifer bowed her head, shaggy locks tumbling over her forehead and into her lashes. Perfect.

Jennifer remembered that day, nearing the end of her first week of dance lessons. She’d felt horrible for losing her temper, and never forgiven herself for it. She’d left the studio, dashing down the halls, poking her head into offices and classes looking for JJ. She’d finally found the girl in a deserted back stairwell, perched on the steps. JJ sat, her perfect posture slumped in dejection, tear tracks drying on pale cheeks. She appeared absolutely forlorn and had looked up at Jennifer with something desperate in her eyes.

“Hey.” Jennifer murmured, “Mind if I sit?” JJ shrugged, and slid over on the step so Jennifer could join her. “I’m really sorry, Jayj.” JJ, glanced over to look momentarily into Jennifer’s eyes. The unspoken question flickering under JJ’s damp lashes was heart-breaking and Jennifer cursed her temper. Grabbing the girl’s hand between her own, she turned dipping her head to hold JJ’s gaze. “I’m sorry. I never should have said those things. I was angry and I didn’t mean a word of it.”

“I know I can be … hard.” JJ whispered, her breath hitching on a sob she struggled to bury down deep. She didn’t want Jennifer to see her cry. She didn’t like crying, it made her feel powerless, like a child. Running off in a fit over hurt feelings was not her best moment, JJ decided. It was no way to win respect. And truth be told, there was nothing she wanted more desperately than Jennifer’s respect. She’d never felt so strongly about how she was seen in the eyes of a student as she was in this moment. But then, Jennifer was no ordinary student. Jennifer was … JJ looked at her with unbridled admiration. Jennifer saw something that wasn’t obscured by her position or her direction or her family, or at least so JJ had previously thought. “You’re not the first person to suggest I should work harder at acknowledging the efforts of the people around me.” JJ offered the admission with no small amount of self-deprecation. “I get … too focused. I just want so much.” JJ’s face was earnest and Jennifer twined their fingers together and gave them a squeeze of encouragement. “I know my students do too and I just … I don’t want them to fail. If I can just push hard enough, maybe I can make sure they don’t.”

“No matter how hard you push Jayj, there are no guarantees.” Jennifer pointed out. “Your work ethic speaks for itself and it certainly wins the commitment of your students on its own merit. The lessons you convey are more than adequate tools to reach any dream but they’re not promises. You can’t internalize your students’ hopes for success, nor can you internalize potential failures. That’s their burden not yours.” JJ sniffled, fresh tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. She squeezed her eyelids shut trying to control her breathing. Jennifer disentangled their fingers to place an arm around stiff shoulders. Pulling JJ close against her side, she rested her cheek against the soft raven crown of curls. “I trust your judgment Jayj. And I will do everything in my power to do your efforts justice. But believe me when I say, no matter what happens when I leave here for the shoot, you’ve more than succeeded as far as I’m concerned.” JJ turned in the embrace, tears damp against Jennifer’s neck.

JJ had allowed herself only a moment before resolutely getting to her feet and drying her eyes on the sleeve of her leotard. She’d reached out, hauled Jennifer to her feet and they’d gone right back to work. It had certainly been a pivotal moment in the formation of what Jennifer now considered their friendship. She did not, as it were, wish a repeat of that episode. Admitting her momentary lack of focus, she offered a conciliatory “I’m sorry Jayj. I was distracted.”

“Indeed. Again, if you please Ms. Grey. And...”

“Perhaps you could join her, darling?” JJ craned her neck to look to the source of this unexpected interruption, as did Jennifer. 

“Hey Ma.” The change in JJ’s demeanor was not unlike daybreak, utterly disarming and just stunning enough to kick the breath from Jennifer’s lungs for an all too different reason. Ire forgotten, Jennifer’s gaze darted between the two women, noting quickly the resemblance. Whisps of wheat blond diametrically opposed to JJ’s thick, inky waves were the stand alone difference between the two. Hair pulled into a tight bun at the nape of a long, graceful neck, she boasted JJ’s same willowy grace that made her mundane attire of warm-ups appear devastatingly chic. She crossed the studio floor to place an affectionate kiss on her daughter’s dark head. Jennifer watched as the woman leaned in to murmur a quiet confidence that seemed to inspire the spreading of a contrite blush across fine features. 

“Ms. Grey, Jennifer, at last a pleasure to meet you.” Penelope turned, gorgeous smile lighting her features. She came to grasp Jennifer’s hand in both her own before pressing cheeks in a very European kiss of greeting. “I’m Jonnie’s mother, Penelope.” Johnny? Jennifer raised a brow making a note to wheedle that one out of her circumspect teen-aged instructor later. “I trust she’s made available to you every resource in aiding preparation for your upcoming role?”

“Oh yes Penelope, thank you. I cannot fully express how incredibly grateful I am for the generosity you’ve shown with your time and space here at PJDR.” Jennifer gushed, then reeled herself in embarrassed. Where had that come from? Much like her daughter, the woman was beyond enchanting up close, only aged to perfection. She could recall having seen the elder Jonson on stage as a child. Then she’d been a beautiful silhouette alight beneath the house yellows, reds, greens and blues. Now, she glided in such intimate space to shimmer up close. Jennifer’s heart trip-hammered as the woman grinned in knowing response to such effusive gratitude. Apparently she was quite accustomed to stunning people senseless. “Jayj has been amazing. I’ve learned so much. I feel very confident that I’ll be able to accomplish whatever is asked of me.” Jennifer smiled at her now blushing instructor. To see such an unexpected display of humility was nothing if not adorable. JJ was, in her turn, confident to the point of arrogance when teaching.

“Wonderful.” Penelope turned gesturing for her daughter to join them. “Come Jonnie, let’s have a look shall we?” JJ relinquished her seat at the piano which Penelope gracefully filled. Her gaze, though warm and encouraging, also bore the intent scrutiny of an erudite professional. She waited, patiently observing as JJ took up the position of a male dance partner opposite Jennifer. Holding in first, frame high, Jennifer could not help but hold her breath. She felt as though she was auditioning for the part again as her stomach clenched painfully and her legs began to shake beneath her.

“Change of pace, let’s have the top of the pas de deux act 1 Giselle.” JJ instructed with a nod then refocused on Jennifer, quickly intuited her ill at ease. “Hey.” JJ whispered, dipping her head to catch and pin Jennifer’s nervously roving focus. Piercing every monumental or minute anxiety that permeated Jennifer’s thoughts, JJ smiled with unerring confidence. “Just look at me.” Jennifer could remember that there was a cotton candy kind of warmth that crept inwards on a deep breath or that whisper soft knit across your shoulder blades, that perfect toasty embrace. This was the warmth lit by JJ’s fondly unwavering cobalt and Jennifer basked in it, forsaking attention to everything else. 

Penelope’s introductory cadence and the music box sprinkling of notes were a fuzzy buzz beyond her aural recognition. She breathed in, felt absolutely light-headed and wondered if she would faint. She could feel JJ like a tide, a pushing, pulling, building beat that cradled her then lifted her high. Warmth prickled and spread, buzzed. She felt at once slick, skittering, live, then condensed, viscous, caramelized. And there was no thinking, and there was only such breathing as was a thick, heady poltergeist careening in from the edges of the warmth that churned every practical sense to absurdity.

The music was soft, a question, a humble request and that first movement was an embrace. JJ’s arms encircling Jennifer’s, round and delicate, together they bent reaching forward. JJ became the impetus of motion, the action, hands directing Jennifer’s arms to widen. She lifted her chest toward the ceiling, blossoming into and through the extension, her toe pointing up, out to the pirouette. JJ’s hands were light on her hips, holding the attitude, and then the gentle lift, gliding, floating up like fluff on a persistent wind. Jennifer arched, then to earth, steady, holding, ever holding. They parted in grace, returned in perfection. Hands clasped, Jennifer extended, pointing the toe reaching again, spinning to skip, to hop, to leaping, gliding under JJ’s hands. Floating up forward, again, she was a gauzy thing that flutters, whispering. They parted and gazing now upon JJ’s shoulders, wide in strong repose, the music drew upon its final note as she held in first again.

“Brilliant! Just brilliant, you two.” Dimly Jennifer blinked, and heaved an indelicate breath as she settled suddenly pressed against JJ’s chest. A prickling of awareness whispered then roared where JJ’s fingertips trailed her back, slipped just under her arms to trace her ribs, brushing infinitesimally along the sides of her breasts, then swiftly away. JJ took a broad step much as she had, Jennifer remembered, the night before away from a feeling exactly like this. Catching her breath and beaming unmitigated pleasure, JJ forcibly refocused attention to look upon her mother. 

Penelope, on her feet hands clasped before her in appreciation, praised “That was lovely Jennifer.” Swallowing, Jennifer could register the remnants of movement in her limbs but could only recall the feeling a moment before of being in JJ’s arms. Surely she had danced every step and could not for her very life remember it. JJ was a cloying mix of sight and sound and pressure crowding every sense, clouding every memory of the last three minutes.

“Th …” Jennifer cleared her throat, flushing at the sudden rasp of low gravelly tones. “Pardon, thank you.” She murmured, embarrassingly unable to meet either the gaze of JJ or her mother. Penelope demurred a light chuckle in response. Shaking herself from heavy-limbed stupor, Jennifer made herself busy digging through her things for her shrug. The goose bumps on her bare arms were far from an indication of a chill. She feared the true reason for their predominance might be read in their very presence. She crossed her arms awkwardly over her chest preoccupying her thoughts for a moment with memories of her brother in seemingly endless discussions of baseball statistics. 

Penelope no doubt sensing Jennifer’s momentary discomfort turned her attention to her daughter. She reached out and JJ molded to her mother’s side in a quick embrace. “I’m very proud of you, darling.” Glancing up to meet Jennifer’s observant gaze, she added, “Join us for dinner. We must celebrate.” JJ nodded in immediate agreement, her features at once childlike.

“Oh yes Jen please?” Jennifer shivered despite having her arms tucked snuggly into the sleeves of her shrug. At last we move beyond Ms Grey, she thought with something a touch more than amusement.

“It’d be my pleasure.”

To say the least the restored original design of the penthouse was as classically beautiful as its occupants. Jennifer marveled at the warm colors bathed under pleasantly muted lights. Penelope had directed her to make herself at home in one of the guest rooms that she might take a long, hot shower and change back into her street clothes. With assurances that dinner would keep, Jennifer had luxuriated in the spacious bathroom, admiring the original fixtures. Some things, like claw foot tubs, copper candelabra and cut crystal mirrors did not require modernization. Jennifer tried to imagine what the master bedrooms must offer if this was a mere guest chamber. She buffed her hair with a towel and pulled it back into a bun, opting against the added time necessary to blow it dry. Once dressed, she’d wandered towards the tell tale sounds and smells of dinner in the making. 

She could hear Cyndi Lauper wailing at high volume and the metallic rustling of pots and pans in action. From the den, where Jennifer hesitated pondering if she should enter the kitchen uninvited, she could just spy one corner of it from where it opened out to a sunken dining room. The table had already been set and a bottle of wine uncorked to breathe, stood waiting to be poured. The den was tasteful, simple despite its age and size. A fireplace that dwarfed a comfortable setting of furnishings, reminded Jennifer of a ski lodge. Already lit and roaring, Jennifer could feel its significant warmth at a distance. She took a moment to luxuriate before her attention was drawn to a collection of family photos and artwork along the walls. The Jonson-Hausseman’s appeared to be fans of contemporary artists, surrealists, photographers. It was an impressive, though complementary mix. 

Drawn to a large oak bookshelf dedicated for all appearances to family photos, Jennifer plucked up a picture of a much younger JJ. No more than six or seven, JJ posed en pointe, arms aloft and eyes fixed magnanimously on the camera. “Barely out of diapers and already a diva.” Jennifer chuckled.

“Thank goodness she’s mellowed with age.” Jennifer turned abruptly, trying somewhat ineffectually to mask the startled expression on her face. A slender woman with a curly mass of sandy hair piled messily on top of her head and dancing eyes gazed back at her. She was barefoot and stood nose to nose with Jennifer, a rare occurrence given her petite stature. In repose, she possessed the same balletic grace she’d spied these last three weeks throughout the corridors of the Rep. Extending an elegant hand she introduced herself. “Frances Hausseman. You must be Jennifer.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Jennifer’s smile faltered only slightly at the firm grip and vigorous handshake. 

“The pleasure is mine. My daughter speaks very highly and very often of you.” Frances chuckled and Jennifer intentionally chose not to investigate the tone her amusement had taken. After the heart-pounding daze that had carried her from the studio to the Hausseman family home, she couldn’t imagine the visceral reaction their daughter continued to inspire was outwardly anything but subtle.

“I have taken up quite a bit of her focus. I hope it won’t be too much to the detriment of the Repertory or her personal training for that matter.” Jennifer’s expression was genuinely regretful. Despite her gratitude for JJ’s time and attention, she did feel an inkling of conflict that she’d deterred the studies of one of the art’s most promising dancers. “I assume she hasn’t had a free moment to see to her own instruction having dedicated herself so completely to mine.”

“Ah, there again you would be surprised.” Pride and concern waged a momentary battle on her face as Frances confided, “Jonnie’s sights are often on perfection. No matter how much of herself she dedicates to others downstairs, her day does not end until she’s dedicated at least as much to her own studies in her private studio up here.” 

“That’s ...” Jennifer smirked, disbelieving. “She spends a sixteen hour day training me then comes up here to dance …”

“Another hour or two at least.” A shake of her head, “The things Pen must threaten to get Jonnie out of those pointe shoes and into bed …” Shocked Jennifer glanced down a hallway towards the guest rooms. A branch off to the right as yet a mystery, she wagered this studio Frances spoke of was located somewhere in that direction. “She was much easier to convince at that age.” Frances added pointing at tiny JJ.

“She’s in there now isn’t she?” Jennifer murmured, her attention drawn back to the photo.

“Yes, but she has promised to come to dinner in a timely fashion.” Frances offered another of her enigmatic grins, “Seems tonight she didn’t require any threatening for encouragement.” Jennifer had the grace not to blush, barely. She carefully replaced the frame on its shelf and with a somewhat abrupt change of subject noted a man with a shaggy mop of hair the same fathomless black as JJ’s. He stood bare-chested in swim trunks by a storybook lake. Nestled between two distant mountain peaks, it reflected a virtually cloudless sky in the clarity of its depths. In bikini’s themselves, Frances and Penelope posed each with one of the young man’s arms draped across her shoulders. They all grinned fanatically with the irrepressible energy of youth. Teenagers by the look of it, they could be no more than a year or two older than JJ was now.

“Is that?” Frances confirmed the obvious, before indicating the young man in the center.

“Penelope and I, JJ’s father - that’s Jonathan.” Frances smiled, remembering. “That was taken our last year up in the Catskills. My family traveled up from Brooklyn every summer on vacation.”

“It’s beautiful.” Jennifer remarked.

“Yeah.” Frances smiled, wistful. “Pen, Jonny and I met at a family resort up there when I was … oh, fourteen, I think. Pen was a dance instructor and Jonny waited tables.” Jennifer gave her a side-long glance.

“Wait … I’m sorry what?”

“I met JJ’s biological father and Penelope my wife the summer before I turned fourteen in the Catskills.” Frances winked as though sharing a secret.

“Jonathan?” Jennifer repeated, her mind whirring with sudden comprehension. “Jonathan Leonard?”

“Why yes.” Had it not been said with such knowing reticence, perhaps it would have been dramatic. If Jennifer had gasped, her hand touching her lips in shock, it certainly would have been. As it was, she could do little more than gaze at Frances wide-eyed.

“You’re Baby Houseman!” Realizing with a wince she’d nearly shouted, Jennifer took a steadying breath. “This movie, Jonathan’s Leonard’s screenplay …”

“Is based on a true story, albeit very loosely. Jonathan spent those summers reading obscure philosophers and writing in his journal, not seducing socialites after dance lessons. That was more Pen’s modus operandi.” Frances chuckled rolling her eyes. “What’s a little dramatic license on the silver screen.” At Jennifer’s sage expression, Frances nodded shrugging. “Yes, it all more or less happened plus, as you can see,” Frances spared an offhanded gesture to their surroundings. “Plenty more that didn’t quite make it into the adaptation.”

“Baby, dinner almost ready?” Jennifer’s gaze shot up unable to disguise shock as Penelope entered the room. She glanced between her wife and Jennifer with genuine confusion, “What?” then, with a stage whisper to Frances, “I thought JJ told her we were lesbians.” Frances guffawed, impertinently.

“Pen, why don’t you show Jennifer around while I finish up in the kitchen, ‘kay love?” With a pointed look she added, “A tour perhaps? There is a wonderful photo of Pen and your Dad on stage in Cabaret.” Frances smiled encouragement. Jennifer swallowed, returning the smile with her own shaky attempt.

“Ah, of course.” Penelope placed a warm hand on Jennifer’s arm, directing her towards the hallway. “Come along Jennifer. I have a story or two you might fancy hearing.” Jennifer spared a glance back towards the kitchen where Frances had already disappeared. 

“Fucking Twilight Zone.” She murmured, then blushed remembering where she was. “Sorry. I mean, this is a joke, right? I’ve read the script. It’s definitely a low budget dance movie and not nonfiction.” Jennifer stuttered nonsensically at Penelope’s wry expression. Turning deeply crimson, Jennifer amended, “That is, what I mean to say is it’s supposed to be the studio’s attempt at duplicating a summer craze like Flashdance or Footloose or even Grease on a short budget.” Bewildered, she spared a glance up into Penelope’s smiling face as the older woman cheerily linked their arms. “It’s not a biopic.” She took a deep breath, and blinking rapidly asked “How secret is this?” 

Penelope shrugged and only offered in a conspiratorial tone, “I really wish he wouldn’t have called it Dirty Dancing.”

 

 

Two Ladies  
Epilogue

 

I.  
Summer 1963 …

Penny was unsure what was harder, working eighteen hour days at Kellerman’s, frugally saving every cent or beating the streets back in Manhattan, dancing her heart out at audition after audition. One day, she’d land a Broadway gig with a run long enough that she could leave these horrid summers in the Catskills behind. Until then, she’d spend eighteen hour days in stilettos teaching Mambo lessons to lawyers and doctors, their pampered wives and spoiled, smart-mouth kids. Suffice it to say, at the end of her day she was more often than not exhausted. Regardless of how her toes ached or how knotted the muscles in her back, the most anticipated part was not the tossing and turning on a stiff cot in a tiny cabin she shared with three other girls. 

In the flickering light of a dozen candle stubs, Baby waited, eyes roaming the pages of a paperback. She sat cross-legged on a blanket spread across the worn wooden slats picnic style. The rhythmic sound of the lake slapping against the pylons securing the boat house and dock seeped up through the cracks. Water was never still, rippling and surging against a rocky shore. This was their favorite place and at night, painted by the fine brushstroke of a guilelessly full moon, it was magic. 

Penny smiled as her eyes adjusted to the light. With her mop of curls and rosy cheeks, Baby looked as cherubic as her name suggested. Were it not for the fact that she wore only a short unbuttoned cardigan and her briefs, Penny might almost believe her eyes. Gazing at the expanse of bare chest between the flaps of Baby’s sweater Penny licked her lips and greeted, “Happy Birthday, Baby.” Head whipping up to reveal a wide smile, Baby gave a giddy laugh and placed her book aside.

“It’s not my birthday, silly.”

“Oh …” Penny came to kneel on the blanket, leaning in conspiratorially. “Then whatever will we do with these?” She revealed a pair of pilfered Popsicles from behind her back. Gleeful, Baby reached to grab one then gave a confused pout when Penny held them aloft, just beyond reach.

“Maybe we could make an exception and celebrate early?” Baby suggested, fluttering her eyebrows flirtatiously.

“I suppose I could be convinced …” Penny hedged, with mock uncertainty. Taking the hint, Baby climbed onto Penny’s lap, legs wrapping securely around the dancer’s slim waist. Baby’s eyes were mesmerizing up close, steel grey and right now a whole lot of naughty. Baby traced her fingers down the buttons of Penny’s blouse, a seductive smile replacing her pout. 

She leaned in, placed a lingering kiss on the underside of Penny’s jaw and whispered, “Convinced?”

“I’ll say.” Penny muttered, casting the Popsicles aside, she slipped her hands into Baby’s hair and pulled her in for a proper kiss.

 

“Lazy days, last two before my family leaves.” Baby whispered, reluctant to disturb the quiet. The candle stubs had burned out and they lay in the dark between merging shadows of carefully stacked row boats and skiffs. She drew her fingers through the long strands of Penny’s hair, memorizing the silky feel brushing her fingertips. Just in case … This could be the last time, she thought and impulsively pressed a gentle kiss against the head pillowed below the swell of bare breasts. Penny was silent. “Classes begin in two weeks. I …”

“Jonny wants to hike Belleayre before … well, one last time, the three of us.” Penny blurted. It had been unspoken between them all summer. They all knew eventually Baby would leave for college and Jonny would follow his dream west to California. After so many summers spent basking in their shared friendship, it seemed impossible that this summer, unlike their second or first, was the last time they’d say goodbye. It was a word that had never carried such finality.

“That sounds perfect.” Baby murmured wistfully.

“Drea, you know that new girl from Chicago, she can cover my lessons and Jonathan schemed a day off out of Nate.” Penny chuckled, fondly. “Under the condition that he would ask you to ask Lisa to …”

“Ugh, you’ve got to be kidding!” Baby shook her head. “Lisa hates his guts. It’ll never happen. He thinks she’s at Holyoke taking knitting or something.” Laughingly Baby said, “He really shouldn’t have broached the subject of free labor. She spent the first half of the summer at that internship on international economic policy. I swear I thought she was going to put a fork in his eye.”

“Please just try. It would be nice to …”

“Say goodbye?” Baby murmured, then, “We don’t have to, you know.”

“Like you said, you start school in two weeks.” Penny sat up, turning her back her hands ran over the soft weave of the blanket searching for her blouse and panties. She didn’t want to have this conversation, not yet. She’d almost hoped these last days would just hover idly on the horizon forever.

“Yes, at Columbia, Pen. I could see you every day if …” Baby reached out brushing her fingers across the slender play of muscle along Penny’s back. “If you want me.” She’d always been brash where Penny was concerned. Three years ago that first summer, her introductory sight of Kellerman’s had been Penny in the shade of the Gazebo. In spite of the heat, she was demonstrating the basics of the Tango to an impressive group of students. Elderly men, adolescent boys and trophy wives stood rapt and salivating over Penny’s sashaying hips. Baby no exception, had simply been hypnotized. Her parents and Lisa at the time thoroughly distracted, attention parced between micromanaging the bellboy and articulating semi-veiled warnings to the valet, were oblivious to Baby wandering. She’d walked dazedly right into the middle of the dance lesson, heedless of interrupting. Halting, when Penny had turned curious and semi-amused eyes on her, Baby said by means of explanation, “I have perfect Tango form and you need a partner to demonstrate.” Penny had grinned and asked, “What’s your name?” 

Fourteen and bookish with braces and no need for even a training bra yet, Baby devoted her summer in worship of seventeen year old Penny Jonson. Penny endured endless ribbing over Baby’s wide love sick eyes that summer. Only Jonny, Penny’s best friend since they were kids back in Philly, had cut either of them any slack. He’d indulged Baby like a little sister, encouraging Penny at the very least to do as much. It hadn’t been an easy agreement what with the teasing, but Penny had given in if begrudgingly. Eventually her response to the taunts regarding her shadow in miniature was to boast that none of the other instructors had an assistant, a skilled one at that. 

Much to Baby’s relief, by the next summer, she’d sprouted. Liberated of braces, no sign of acne, and filling out a bit more than a training bra, she no longer retained any of her childhood identity save that irremediable nickname. She spent her days helping Penny with lessons and one night, sitting companionably by the lake, Baby had locked eyes, leaned in, and kissed for all she was worth. It hadn’t been a perfectly executed kiss, but as far as firsts go, she was convinced it had left an indelible mark. Penny had grinned ruefully, giving that long hair a shake and said only, “Oh Baby.”

Three summers was plenty of time for love to take root, but Baby had known the first moment she’d seen Penny. “Pen?” Baby sat up. She reached out with gentle fingers under Penny’s chin. “I love you and I’d do anything, absolutely anything ...”

“It won’t be perfect Baby. It won’t be easy.” Hope kicking to the surface in her gaze, Penny leaned forward, their foreheads just touching. Baby sighed, relief cascading through her body, and pulled Penny into a tight embrace.

“It doesn’t have to be.” Smiling, Baby sang softly, “Oh won’t you stay. Just a little bit longer. Please let me hear you say that you will. Say …” 

Leaning in to capture soft lips, Penny whispered, “I will.”

 

Mid-Winter 1970 …  
“Pen! Love we got a package from Jonny!” Baby pulled her keys out of the door and bumped it closed with her hip. She glanced over the hefty manila envelope with the Hollywood return address. “Pen?” She discarded her satchel and keys in the small entryway, kicking her shoes off into a pile by the door. “Love where are you?” Padding down the hall into the main area of the loft she loosed her scarf and shrugged out of her coat. Usually the space held a bit of a chill, but it was absolutely stifling. Checking the thermostat, she confirmed her suspicion, “It’s hotter than a hooker’s …. Pen, the thermostat says 90 for fuck’s sake!” She glanced about expecting to see her girlfriend perhaps making breakfast. Still clothed in the sweaty scrubs of a thirty-six hour surgical shift, Baby was prone to wishful thinking. The bank of full length mirrors and barre they’d lovingly installed as Pen’s workout space stood in shadow, the overhead lights extinguished. Their makeshift office, several heavy bookshelves stuffed with text books and second-hand office furniture overrun by Baby’s papers was also cast in dim neglect. But for a vacant threadbare sofa and the bathroom from which she heard no tell-tale sounds of bathing, all that remained was their cozy little sleeping loft. The extra tall ceilings of the refurbished warehouse inspired the construction of a wooden platform sizable enough to serve as a second story room all its own.. 

Climbing the ladder to their bedroom, Baby spied her elusive lover, blond head peaking out of a mountain of blankets. “Pen, love?” Gently pulling back the covers, Baby scrutinized Penny’s sleeping face. Flushed cheeks and clammy forehead, Baby groaned internally, she was definitely spiking a fever. “Poor Pooh Bear.” Baby murmured, then sighed resignedly, “Doctor’s Hausseman’s work is never done.” She set aside the package and set off to prepare soup and tea. 

Penny had just been hired for a gig dancing in a show choreographed by Bob Fosse. It was an entirely new concept and there was no real way of knowing what the reception would be. Everyone was holding their breath that success buzzed anxiously on the horizon. Couldn’t be worse timing, Baby wanted to grouse but was more determined to get Penny well. She bullied and cajoled a few bites of soup and some Tylenol before Penny rolled over and slipped quickly back to sleep.

Allowing herself a quiet moment just to watch her fitful slumber, Baby remembered the package. Curiosity piqued, she tore it open as quietly as possible. With a quick glance to confirm she hadn’t disturbed Penny’s dozing, she examined the contents. There was a letter detailing all of Jonny’s latest adventures, lengthy debaucheries all, and a hard-cover book. Baby, eyes alight, read the cover aloud, “Dirty Dancing by Jonathan Leonard. Well how about that, she marveled. Opening to skim the first pages, she smirked, “Terrible title though.”

 

Winter 1971 …  
“Penny! I can barely hear you!” Jonathan Leonard shouted into the receiver of the pay phone. His voice echoed down the hospital corridor. The lights had been dimmed in deference to the lateness of the hour. Some distance away, the duty nurse looked up from the crossword puzzle she’d been working since he’d arrived. The light of day had still blazed across the waiting room tile then. He’d been sitting in those uncomfortable plastic chairs quite a while. Jonathan turned his back on the less than hospitable look the nurse telegraphed in his direction. “Penny?”

“Jonny! I’m here. I got your message through the production office.” Even over the static on the line, Jonathan could hear apprehension in his friend’s voice.

“I thought you were in Berlin. Why the hell’s the connection so god awful?” Jonathan shouted in near frustration. Penny’s response was a garbled mess from which he was only able to decipher the words, “outside” and “Berlin”. 

“Penny!”

“Frances … okay?” Penny’s voice faded, to near silence, then the rustle and whine of electronic noise.

“They’re fine Penny. They’re both fine. You have a beautiful baby girl. Penny? Did you hear me? It’s a girl!” Jonathan held his breath as the seconds ticked by in silence.

“A girl?” For a moment, the line was clear and Penny’s voice was filled with wonder. “And they’re both fine?” Jonathan smiled, his own joy uncontainable.

“Yeah Penny, a girl. Mother and daughter are in perfect health. Congratulations!” Jonny laughed, “She’s as long as a reed, Pen. She’ll be tall as you this time next year.”

“Aw, Jonny.” He could hear the distinct sounds of sobbing over the line. “Tell ‘em …” Static, loud and intrusive, careened across the receiver.

“Don’t worry Penny. I’ll tell them.” Jonathan swallowed mightily, choking on tears of his own. “Call when you get back to the city.”

“Thank … Jonny. … love …” The conversation ended abruptly with the click and dead air of an inactive line. 

“Penny?” Jonathan replaced the receiver in the cradle. Wiping his eyes, he turned back towards the nurse’s station. The duty nurse had returned to her crossword pointedly ignoring him now. Three doors down the hall, Baby Hausseman slept. Her labor had been relatively swift and uncomplicated for a first pregnancy, or so the Obstetrics nurse had discreetly shared with him while he’d paced waiting for news. She’d assumed he was a nervous father-to-be and taken pity on him. 

Jonathan returned to his seat in the waiting room. He still had several hours until he’d be allowed to visit Baby. Since he wasn’t family, hospital policy had been clear. Apparently Baby had raised such a ruckus that he’d eventually been allowed a moment to peek in on her. She’d offered him an exhausted smile, beckoning him into the room. He’d sat on the edge of the bed, an arm around her shoulders, and peered down at the sleeping newborn with undisguised awe. 

“She’s beautiful Baby.” He could honestly say that he’d had no true concept of how he’d feel today, not a year before when Penny and Baby had come to him. They’d asked this thing of him, this awesome favor, and he’d said yes with ease. Penny and Baby were family, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for them. Now here he was, Uncle Jonny. He’d scrap-booked ultrasound pictures and bought onesies and helped build a nursery in that Greenwich loft of theirs. He was as proud as any man who might call himself a father. 

Lisa, Baby’s sister, had ducked out of the birthing room periodically to provide updates. Last Jonny had seen, she’d been curled awkwardly into an armchair pulled close to the bedside, finally sleeping. She hadn’t slept with any regularity since Penny had departed for a film shoot in Germany. In Penny’s absence, there wasn’t anyone more watchful and semi-frantic over the delicacy of Baby’s condition in the last month or so of the pregnancy. Lisa had taken an extended leave from her teaching position at New York University and spent the month attending to her sister’s every anticipated need. 

Baby, being stolidly independent as ever, had begrudgingly conceded to the stipulation of Lisa’s custodial presence. Penny had threatened very effectively that she’d call Mr. Bob Fosse up and quit without Baby’s tacit agreement to Lisa’s assistance. A starring role in a Hollywood big budget film, it was the biggest break of her career. Baby had quickly and quietly retreated, admitting defeat. Pragmatic as ever, Baby was far from a nervous mother-to-be. She’d seen dozens of women in her condition in her practice and had learned from the experience that there was no better protection from complication than setting one’s own mind at ease. She tolerated the anxious tutting from her sister and her wife as it persisted throughout her pregnancy though the notion that they somehow knew better remained clouded in mystery. 

The filming schedule had Penny wrapped and back in Manhattan two days before Baby’s official due date. What was that saying about God laughing at plans? Contractions had set all that careful planning awry two weeks early. Lisa had rushed Baby to the hospital in a story that Jonathan had only heard a shortened version of yet had decided he’d one day record for posterity. “She made the cab driver pull over so she could get out and call you on a pay phone in mid-town.” Lisa had reported, shaking her head in astonishment, “After I’d already slipped him a hundred bucks to run every light between us and Bellevue!” Baby had only smirked listening to her sister’s account. Her only response had been, laughingly “Labor can take days, we had time for a phone call, especially one that important.” 

Jonathan had downed two Jack and cokes in quick succession and fidgeted the entire five hour flight of a hastily caught red-eye, much to his seating companion’s dismay. He’d arrived at the hospital with little more than the clothes on his back and just frazzled enough to give the next several hours in the waiting room an unexpected level of insight into his feelings. He’d never really wanted to be a Dad. Family wasn’t his forte, he often reminded himself. That reminder held particular weight as it carried the memory of his fifteenth birthday, the day his father found out the rumors on the block about queer Giovanni Leonardi weren’t so much rumors as they were the simple truth. Jonathan Leonard was born that day, with nothing more than the clothes on his back and a new saying whenever someone asked after “his people”. “Family is not my forte” He’d joke lightly, with laughter, with effervescent charm. He never let anyone see the vacant place that cramped and pained with loss.

Giovanni Leonardi from the old neighborhood had parents yet living, brothers and sisters, in-laws, aunts, uncles and cousins, a cacophony of nieces and nephews who didn’t even know his name. Jonathan Leonard had no one. Or was he Jonny Hollywood, smiling seductively and inviting hot nights after the press of bodies in the boys clubs? He had two loyal, loving friends. They were better than family, and he’d said the easiest yes to the most difficult request of his life for them. He’d run out of film taking pictures through the nursery glass when the attending nurse wheeled the basinet forward for him. Jonny had never wanted to be a Dad. But he’d wager he’d be the best uncle in the world to Jonnie Jonson Hausseman. 

 

II.  
Early October 1986 ...  
Emile Ardolino closed his eyes, tension visible in the stiff set of his shoulders. Herb Gains, the unit’s first assistant director, edged closer. Since production had commenced, Gains had learned his fair share of cursing in Italian. He caught several choice phrases muttered under the director’s breath in moments much like this one.

“Cut!” Emile glared unrepentantly as the argument that had already held up filming thirty minutes, gained new ground between the co-stars of his severely over budget low-budget film.

“It’s unprofessional! Really, how much film are you planning on wasting today?”

“Seriously Patrick, just fuck you! All of the sudden you’re Mister Big Shit Hollywood? Do not stand there and condescend to me as though you’re more invested in this project than I am.” Gains glanced at the sound guy, making a discreet slashing motion with his hand. He knew he didn’t need to tell him to cut sound but erred on the side of caution. He received a simple nod of confirmation. The last thing their happy little production needed was one of these screaming matches leaking to the press.

“Grow up Jennifer!” That was rich, Gains nearly chuckled watching the lithe actor literally stomp across the set. He’d watched his three year old perform that same move over the short weekend after being denied a willful demand for more ice cream. Grey stood, arms crossed, glowering across the dance studio in which the scene was set. At least she was on her mark for a change, Gains noted for all it was worth on this useless take.

“Sure thing Patrick. I’ll grow up the moment you stop being such a prick!” And now the name calling segment, Gains thought uninterested in what variety of spoiled princess or frigid bitch was going to lead Swayze’s response. Nothing if not predictable, rolling his eyes skyward he turned his attention back to the boss. Emile fumed in silence. Apparently he’d recently taken up some kind of eastern meditation, Yoga or chanting or whatever. The first few weeks of shooting, he’d practically foam at the mouth trying to out-shout Grey and Swayze. The gossip was he’d started having chest pains and a clean bill of health from his doctor had encouraged him to try an alternative means of dealing with the stress of shooting the world’s most expensive straight to video release.

“I’ll have Nathalie corral them then work on rescheduling the scene for after lunch.” Gains offered glancing away from what had become far less surprising with daily repetition. It was inevitably Ardolino’s first anticipated request when shooting descended into chaos. 

“Si prego, then bring the dailies. Perhaps there is something here we can salvage.” Ardolino had lost just enough patience not to waste his own energy placating or chastising. After shooting schedule upon shooting schedule had been disrupted by mulish bickering and self-indulgent sulking, he now delegated the duty of talent-handling to his subordinates. Ardolino relinquished his seat with no small amount of exasperation. He paused, a grimace clouding his expression. Tapping thoughtful fingers to the unkempt wires, dark and bushy situated under the width of his nose. “Find Jonathan and have him join us, per favore.” 

“Certainly Emile.” Ardolino walked for all appearances calmly off the set and Gains gave a weary glance about. He imagined somewhere the press was skulking taking copious notes. There would be another story in the trade magazines by morning about rising tensions and explosive arguments at the heart of MGM’s most recent financial debacle. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for a director to request a meeting with the co-producer and in this case by turns writer of the film. Jonathan Leonard had been the engine behind this project for years. Apparently, Ardolino had been a friend long before Leonard pitched it to the studio or Ardolino had even been tapped to direct. The close nature of their relationship had on many an occasion been grist for the gossip mill. Nevertheless, the timeliness of this request left Gains to wonder if recent talk of recasting might be more than heretical nonsense. In fact, the unexpected appearance of Linda Gottlieb on the set last week had fueled much of that so-called nonsense. Why else would an executive producer suddenly take keen interest in spending several hours of a busy day watching takes?

He hooked the arm of a gaffer hurrying past. Drawing a blank on the kids name, he ordered, “Track down Nathalie Vadim for me, will ya.” 

“Yes sir, Mr. Gains.” The kid scrambled off, narrowly dodging a key grip hauling a box of equipment. Reaching in his pocket for a mostly empty package of Tums, he absently peeled back the foil and popped two of them in his mouth. Biting down hard, he attempted to ignore a sudden bout of queasiness. A recast in the middle of production would financially cripple any film. The bustling grips and gaffers, the gossiping hair and make-up crew tittering behind their hands while they stood by for the next take, the assistant directors like him, they could all be unemployed this time next week.

“Alright folks, that’s lunch.” Gains raised his voice to be heard above the shouting. Swayze and Grey simultaneously halted their mutual tirade, looking miffed at the interruption.

“Great, another productive shooting day.” Swayze muttered and marched swiftly off set.

Herb Gains counted himself lucky. Being first assistant meant that he had the privilege to spend his lunch listening to more cursing in Italian while Ardolino scrutinized the dailies second by agonizing second. He didn’t offer input unless he was asked a direct question. The artistic vision of the project was Ardolino’s and Ardolino’s alone. The Director had firmly established that from day one. Being first assistant meant spending a great deal of time waiting to demonstrate your film-making competence to someone, anyone. He caught a glimpse of Nathalie Vadim dutifully making her way toward the set from a distance.

Being second assistant, on the other hand, meant you got to spend lunch stroking the over-inflated egos of the cast post on-set tantrum. Any given day, Gains rather be stuck in a trailer nodding vaguely while Ardolino went off on one of his unintelligible rants about Swayze and Grey’s deteriorating chemistry. Nothing sounded more unpalatable then trying to coerce cooperation from either of the stars. It was a herculean effort to prod that train wreck into a productive relationship, and he didn’t envy Nathalie in the least. She’d been one of those California health nuts when production started, the annoying kind that jogged and only drank fresh squeezed juice and pursed their lips in dismay upon sight of a cigarette or lighter. Now she was a two pack a day smoker with an even more worrisome coffee habit and a twitch that seemed to develop whenever Swayze or Grey’s name was mentioned. Worrisome.

“Hey. What’s up?” The second assistant wheezed, slightly out of breath. Gains only had to give her a look and she was already fumbling in her pockets for a crumbled pack of cigarettes and a plastic Bic lighter. “Yeah, I figured.”

“Is, uh, Orbach still on the shooting schedule today?” Gains inquired, waiting patiently for Nathalie to light a somewhat pathetic looking, for being slightly bent, cigarette. She nodded, inhaling.

“Yep.” She rasped on the exhale. “I suppose I should let him know we probably won’t make his scene today. Again. That’ll be fun.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Gains offered and at her look of surprise then consternation shrugged. “You’ve got your hands full with the Bobsey Twins.”

“Thanks, Gains. Really.” Nathalie brightened for a moment before the reality set in that she still had quite a bit of kiss ass ahead. “Right then, on to mind-fuckery.”

 

Jennifer leaned her head against the back of the couch. Nathalie had brought her a diet coke with that tremulous smile of hers and listened with compassion while Jennifer attempted to formulate the most livid curse for genitalia in relation to Patrick Swayze. Halfway into the soft drink can, her temper had cooled enough to agree to return to set after lunch and give it another try. Nathalie had scurried off, as she often did. No doubt she was on her way to wrangle the same promise from Patrick. Prick. 

Jennifer relaxed into the thankfully silent interior of her trailer. Fucking Swayze. Jennifer was willing to concede that her profane temper was easily piqued in the midst of a frustrating take, but Swayze! He was just so damn holier than thou. It was as though in the two short years between their discordant collaboration on the production of Red Dawn and the recent resumption of animosities, he’d suddenly transformed by his own estimation into an Academy Award winning actor. His regard for Jennifer’s efforts toward the dancing scenes in particular were impossible to bear. She’d been working her ass off for two uninterrupted months now and he was nothing if not dismissive. 

Every day before her call time Jennifer gazed in the mirror and repeated the simple pep talk, “Fuck him. You have been trained by the best damned teenage dance instructor in the world. He should count himself lucky to share the screen with you.” Today, however, the pep talk had simply entailed, “Fuck him.” Finishing her soda, Jennifer roughly estimated how much down time remained until the call. True to her promise, she been strictly adhering to a very tight physical regimen intended to maintain the skills she’d developed under AD JJ’s thorough if not severe tutelage. There were few free moments to slip away to the rehearsal studio. JJ had provided inarguably exact instructions based on the choreography. As it turned out, the world only seemed to get smaller where this production was concerned. Assistant choreographer for production was Miranda Garrison, PJDR alumnus. 

Miranda had been quite happy to provide JJ with details necessary to design Jennifer’s on-location workout schedule. It was a stuffed three ring binder of typed instructions as specified not just by day, but time of day. She’d received the binder via Fed-ex. There’d been nothing else in the package, just a post-it marked by JJ’s precise script - Break a leg, JJ. Thus, Jennifer had proceeded from three weeks of boot camp with JJ to fly directly into two weeks rehearsal with Miranda. She’d barely had a half day in between, to do anything besides dance. When shooting began, she had over a month of grueling training behind her. Daily workouts remained a dogged companion in between takes and were proving highly therapeutic after these tiffs with Patrick. 

Abruptly turning her mind from thoughts of the on-set angst, Jennifer discarded her wardrobe for warm-ups. She preferred a jersey camisole and thick tights to the leotard JJ had insisted upon at the Rep. “It’s our uniform.” The young woman had intoned, pressing pink tights and a black leotard into Jennifer’s hands. Her expression brooked no argument and Jennifer had quickly adjusted to being, if temporarily, another of the bun-sporting masses at Manhattan’s most distinguished dance repertory. She pulled back her hair, slipping on a zip up and donning the hood. She had a small canvas hand bag for her workout notes, jazz pumps, point shoes, and sundry other workout necessities. The words “Penelope Johnson Dance Repertory” decorated both sides. It was this same bag, stuffed with warm-ups and such, a breathless intern quick from the pro shop had presented after knocking on the studio door. That first day Jennifer had fallen in love with PJDR … or something therein. Slipping the loose straps over her shoulder on her way to train, Jennifer smiled.

In the rehearsal space, she ran through her stretching exercises with deliberation. The remnants of her argument with Patrick had yet to cool completely. She intended to leave what remained on the dance floor. Even without the benefit of a partner, Jennifer was able to focus her attentions on most of the movements in the choreography. Without JJ or even Patrick’s obnoxious ribbing there to remind her to hold her frame, straighten and extend, Jennifer danced with the cadence of her own whispering encouragement. The recorded strains of the soundtrack rolled from the studio speakers on repeat. She didn’t like having to stop and fuss with the elaborate sound system again and again. She just danced the piece, start to finish, making her own mental notes on where her focus lagged. 

“Watch those arms kiddo.” Nearing the end of her workout, exhaustion threading her limbs, distraction tugged at her as she narrowed in on a particularly tricky bit of footwork. She, balanced on her toes, allowed herself to turn at the words, arms dropping minutely. 

“Better?” Readjusting her pose, Jennifer smiled at her visitor, focused her attention on her position in the mirrors. 

“Perfect.” Jerry Orbach nodded, strolling farther into the studio to observe as Jennifer continued to work. “Looks like the choreography is coming along nicely.”

“Bit by bit.” Jennifer murmured tossing damp bangs out of her eyes. “THE Patrick Swayze might not agree.”

“Well, Patrick is a perfectionist.” Jerry rocked back on his heels hands in his pockets. “But then aren’t we all?” She tore her gaze away from her own reflection in the studio mirrors to convey how contrary she felt with regard to any matter on the subject of Patrick Swayze.

“No, not according to Patrick.” Jennifer dropped her position, relaxing to roll the burning tension from her shoulders and neck. “I know we all want the same things. I do, honestly Jerry. But Patrick and I … we’ve never been quite a homogeneous mix.” Jennifer smirked heading to the barre to begin her cool down. She lifted her right leg and stretched forward bending at the waist. Fingers brushing against her ankle, she held the position for an idle eight count then straightened. She glanced over to acknowledge the continued presence of her costar and onscreen father before she continued. Leaning back, she stretched her fingers, reaching beyond her head toward the wall behind her. Her torso created an elegant bow, she breathed deep, counting through the stretch. “Try harder?” 

“I know I needn’t even ask Jen. I don’t doubt you’ve got a healthy dose of your father’s professionalism.” Jerry smiled, “He’d be proud. I am. Only …”

“Try harder.” Jennifer repeated with a grin as she straightened. She mimicked a half pirouette, now extending her left leg to repeat the exercise. Jerry nodded. Pulling his hands from his pockets, he revealed a folded piece of paper. He crossed to Jennifer’s side. Jennifer glanced at the paper curious, then relinquishing the barre, reached out to take it from his hands. Her fingers caught in a quick affectionate squeeze, she was transported back to a moment in her father’s dressing room two months ago, the moment poised at the beginning of this arduous task. She met Jerry’s gaze while unfolding the piece of paper, then chuckled as she finally looked upon it.

“We’re all invested here kiddo, maybe more so than you realize.” She grasped his hand then, trying to convey, apology for her short-sightedness, gratitude for his investment. Jerry Orbach was the best kind of actor, in Jennifer’s eyes, like her father Joel and many others in the extensive Broadway family. They all loved this work and it showed.

“The world just keeps getting smaller, doesn’t it.” She murmured, to which Jerry only grinned. “Thanks Jerry.”

“Don’t mention it, kid.”

 

June 3, 1975 …  
Penelope Jonson, Penny, brushed her fingers across the carefully etched letters of the name plate on her very own dressing room door. The sweat pooling between her shoulder blades and at the base of her spine had rapidly cooled, and she shivered as she stepped across the threshold. The first thing she really wanted was a hot shower. Before that though, she’d stretch. Longevity as a dancer was in the fine details. She was ten years into the business of steady stage work. She could have ten, even twenty more if she took persistent care.

An assistant came by to help her out of her costume. It would be cleaned and attended to for tomorrow’s performances. “Congratulations Ms. Jonson. You were wonderful.” Penny gave the young woman a kind smile in thanks. Eight shows a week would run like clockwork until they didn’t. If tonight, opening night of Fosse’s latest masterpiece, was any indication; they’d be Broadway’s newest darlings for as long as they pleased. Another assistant came for her wig along with another round of congratulations. It was nearly a half an hour before Penny slipped under the hot spray of the shower in her tiny bathroom. Tonight, there would be press and parties and many more congratulations. But for now, Penelope was content to just close her eyes and drift. Ten or twenty more years on the stage, she pondered. Perhaps, she thought with no small amount of wistfulness, she could …

“Pen, love, there is a profusion of salivating paparazzi and fans at the stage door awaiting your emergence.” Penny started, at the voice just on the other side of the shower curtain. No time for day dreams, she thought ruefully and stuck her head out into the steamy cubicle. Baby stood smirking just inside the doorway looking resplendent in Dior. It had been, as Penny recalled, a well-appreciated birthday gift. In fact, Penny hadn’t been able to look at the gown since without blushing.

“Five minutes?” Penny offered with an upraised eyebrow. Baby shrugged.

“Tonight’s your night love. They’ll wait.”

“In that case,” Penny grinned, “Join me?” Laughing, Frances backed out of the bathroom and called over her shoulder.

“Five minutes.”

Only amidst the excitement of opening night on Broadway, could Penny easily rationalize the chore of divesting herself of costuming and makeup, to shower and get back into hair, make-up and a designer gown. Any other night, she’d be snuggled in warm-ups and her winter coat, hailing a cab home. A production of this size was a marathon. It meant that more than she saw her lovely wife, in between Baby’s surgical rotation and legislative brief writing, she slept. It meant waking up after five short hours to make her little girl breakfast, take her to dance class, put her down for a nap, but no time for coercing tiny wiggling legs and arms into pajamas after baths, no lingering over story books before kisses goodnight. Lisa had emerged as a highly committed Aunt, stepping in to co-parent while Baby saved lives and Penny danced. 

The theater was only dark on Mondays, and on Mondays Penny had dinner at home with her family. But mostly, she slept, recharged. Sometimes she dreaded Wednesdays and Saturdays, two shows with the matinee. Off-stage, she trudged in zombied abstraction through those days and barely caught a glimpse of her family. As Penny allowed herself one last mirror check, she nearly blanched at the thought of it all starting up again. Perhaps after this show, she’d think about making it her last. Until then, camera-ready, she thought, nodding her head in approval. Hair held up in a crown of golden ringlets, Penny wore a sheer, white off the shoulder Versace gown that made a stunning pair next to Frances’s low cut Dior in black. She gazed at Baby’s reflection, just over her shoulder in the dressing table mirror, a study in patience. “You look lovely, darling.” Baby blushed, ruby lips drawing back in a smile. She’d flat-ironed her light brown curls into a long curtain that brushed pale shoulders. There would be as much interest in the woman on her arm as in her behind the flashing lights, Penny thought with no small amount of pride.

“Penelope Jonson,” Baby leaned over to place a dainty kiss on freshly painted pink lips. “I just might make you my wife.” With twinkle-eyed regard, Penny rose and helped Baby slip into her wrap. She quirked a brow in amusement at Baby’s wandering hands upon returning the favor. 

“What will the mother of my child think?” Baby drew close, fingers burying themselves in the thick fur along the neckline of Penny’s shawl. She gazed long and loving.

“That she’s the luckiest woman in the world.” With one last peck for smiling lips, Penny drew a deep breath. Tomorrow she’d ponder perhaps, what could she want after the stage and all of this, but tonight … tonight would only be marked by beginnings. 

 

In the backstage corridors of the 46th Street Theater, most of the cast and crew still milled in a celebratory atmosphere. Early buzz from reviewers had marked Chicago as the must see show of the year. No one seemed quite ready to leave albeit for the accolades and festivities that beckoned them. The energy they’d conjured together on stage, magnified by the audience, refined by the history bound within the walls of this theater, was an interlinking residue, a convivial web that held them rejoicing in the wings.

“Jerry!” Penny called to one of her cast mates. It was greeting. It was celebration. It was a resounding, triumphant embrace in a single word. Orbach waved and raised a plastic cup of champagne in toast.

“Penny!” They exchanged kisses, gripping each others’ arms. The atmosphere vibrated with excitement, Penny could only imagine the reception they’d receive on the other side of the stage door.

She grinned, “You know my partner Dr. Frances Hausseman?”

“Yes of course, Dr. Hausseman. So very good to see you again.” Jerry smiled, shaking Baby’s hand in greeting. “And where’s the munchkin tonight?”

“With her aunt.” Baby smiled indulgently. “Though she begged tirelessly to be here. She’s a bit young for all of this, yet ” She waved her arm broadly and even Penny could note that things had become a bit bacchanal at the timely skittering past of three giggling female choral dancers dressed only in jazz shoes and tights. Baby followed their progress then added off-handed, “Next year, perhaps.” Jerry laughed.

“Mr. Orbach, Ms. Jonson, would you mind?” One of the male dancers in the chorus approached holding up a camera in timid question. 

“It’s Jerry and Penny, kid. You’ll have us in early retirement with all that mister and miss.” Orbach gestured the young man closer with a kind smile.

“Why don’t you get in, and I’ll take it?” Baby offered, holding her hand out. The young man grinned broadly, ecstatic.

“Yes please! Thanks!” Relinquishing the camera, he joined Penny and Jerry. Tall, chiseled and tan, he wasn’t your typical New Yorker, as his accent belied. He’d grown up somewhere southern, Texas at a wager. He tossed shaggy locks out of his eyes, smiling widely and Penny gave him an indulgent grin as though looking upon a kid brother. She drew him closer with an arm around broad shoulders and leaned into Jerry’s side, his arm around her waist. Looking up they all smiled as Baby framed the picture, finger poised over the shutter button. 

“Alright guys,” She instructed, depressing the button, “say …” 

“Fosse!”

Early October 1986 ...  
Jennifer read over her lines one last time while her make-up was touched. Rather than a final pep talk, she spared a quick glance at the newest addition to the handful of family pictures, letters and cards that decorated the edges of the dressing table mirror in her trailer. It was a grainy xerox copy of an old photo. The typeface at the top indicated it had been faxed to the production office from New York. In the picture, younger by some years, Jerry Orbach stood amongst cast mates and crew backstage. Jennifer  
readily guessed the production to be Chicago. Smiles and laughter lit the faces among whom she could pick out Penelope Johnson, as ever beautiful, and a young man close at her side brimming with the excitement of his career debut - Patrick Swayze.

 

III.  
Mid August 1980 …  
“We all dance, human beings. It is as much a part of our nature as speech. We talk in order to connect with each other and when we dance, it is in recognition of that connection. When we dance, we rejoice. That is all we are, simply. At the very heart of everything we accomplish, all we create, are those two acts - connection and celebration.”

Two years ago, she’d stood on a dais at a ribbon cutting ceremony and given that speech. She’d opened the doors to something she’d dreamed more than dancing on stage, Broadway, stardom - a repertory that would touch and thus change the history of dance. Fifteen years of notable success on stage and screen didn’t date her as over the hill. At thirty-five she knew she had another five years of full time dancing in her. Her joints and bones did not yet protest in ways that demanded retirement. But her dreams were too big to sacrifice, even to the stage.

Penelope Jonson stood on the second floor balcony overlooking the wide marble foyer of her very own titular Dance Repertory. The immortalized faces of progenitors looked on behind her. Every year she stood, gazing upon the upturned faces of students and instructors, faculty and staff. Alight with the promise of a new semester a new adventure, she gave this same speech as a reminder that in life they could all count themselves very lucky. Not lucky for talent or opportunity, but they were lucky to spend every day steeped in celebration. Every year, they clapped and dispersed to classes, buzzing with excitement, eager to begin. She did not assume that they all “got it”, this simple speech that served as convocation. But unerringly, she’d make this same speech every year. Those who did “get it”, would carry its message and that was what she’d dreamed with a perhaps as she danced her last role on stage.

Notably absent from her speech this particular morning, was a nine year old dance prodigy she’d had many second thoughts about taking on as a student. Recent events hadn’t assuaged those concerns. In an empty studio on the masters’ floor, she found her sister-in-law Lisa behind a piano, lending diligent attention to Tchaikovsky's Dance of the Cygnets, voice raised in direction.

“Plie. Retire. Changment. Plie. Again!” Frustrated huffing arose from the lone dancer on the floor and was ignored as the music continued. Penelope watched in silence for a moment then, clearing her throat, called the exercise to a halt. Lisa looked up, smiling despite frustration straining through furrowed brow.

“And how’s my little cat this morning?” Penny greeted, eyes on her sister-in-law rather than the small girl who now stood arms crossed resolutely over her thin chest.

“It’s not fair.” Lisa was interrupted before she could so much as open her mouth to respond. Quirking a brow, she was determined not to offer an indulgent smile.

“This morning, a bit belligerent I’d say.” Lisa placed her hands on top of the piano, “We’ve spent the last hour running through the Pas de Chat section. It could use a little more work.”

“It’s not …”

“Yes, you’ve remonstrated the fairness of your current predicament exhaustively. Perhaps if you invested half that energy into your Pas de Chat practice it would have concluded by now.” Lisa reposted, frustration now far more evident than amusement at her niece’s antics. Penny in turn bestowed a stern look upon her daughter. Jonnie Jonson Hausseman, or JJ as she was often called, did not falter. She’d never been a child prone to tantrums. Startlingly self-possessed, she did not rage and stomp her feet, cry or even raise her voice. She spoke softly, even in anger but never failed to make herself heard. 

“We. Do. Not. Fight. Do you or do you not understand me?” Tone and timbre brooked no argument; and JJ’s protestations were quickly dispatched by her own silence under Penny’s shrewd gaze. 

“Yes Ma’am.” JJ murmured. It was often inaccurately assumed that Penny was not the disciplinary force in the Jonson-Hausseman home. It was as much her easy smile and gentle warmth as Baby’s somewhat mercenary reputation won in her work as a surgeon or lobbying for protections to women’s reproductive rights. Her opponents, whose arguments sometimes degenerated into the inarticulate cruelty of terrorist acts against women’s clinics, had never fought her to a standstill. However, at home, Baby deferred to Penny seemingly unable to muster a cohesive argument against their single-minded nine year old daughter.

The day before, at a Repertory-sponsored picnic in honor of the fall semester, an older boy had taunted JJ about having “two bull dykes” instead of “real parents”. JJ had never responded well to the taunts of other children. Children her age didn’t listen to her reasoned arguments and when the cajoling became physical, much like her diminutive crusader Mom, she never backed down. The boy had been forty pounds heavier and a foot taller at twelve, and JJ had only walked away after seeing to it he’d sobbed an apology for his insult despite the blood streaming from his broken nose. The parents, Wall Street trader father and Park Avenue socialite mother, had threatened to sue. Baby had explained that should a judge be convinced their forty pound nine year old daughter had gone after an eighty pound twelve year old boy with malicious intent, then so be it, truth in consequence. The parents had chosen to pull him abortively from the program instead.

Baby had been somewhat unable to contain her pride. She’d given their daughter the once over, and noting nothing more than a set of reddened knuckles, had hugged the girl fiercely suggesting ice cream. Needless to say, that left the subsequent disciplinary action to Penny. Penny, who unlike Baby, had not grown up in a Brooklyn brownstone. Penny, who had more tales of scrape-ups and tussles by the time she was JJ’s age than she could count. Penny, who was unspeakably proud of her scrappy little cat, was now conveying the message, “We do not fight. There is far greater value in winning an argument than in winning a fight.” She’d add that little gem of a lecture to the things she’d never imagined herself saying as a parent.

As consequence, JJ was spending the day in a suspension supervised by her aunt. Lisa had taken on a part time position at the Rep as an instructor. She’d spent so many years babysitting and tutoring her niece that the transition had been natural. Beyond thought of which, she was as much Penny’s business partner as a sitting board member for PJDR. In her time away, she taught a course on International Economic Policy of Developing Countries at NYU and published fairly regularly. Even with the demands of academia, tenure and a cadre of attentive teaching assistants left her free to make a significant contribution within the dance studios. Much like Frances, she’d been dancing most of her life and despite choosing a divergent career path, nothing could stop her coming back with regularity. 

“Let’s see those pas de chat, then.” Penny nodded and Lisa resumed the music for the fourth act of Swan Lake. JJ had recently been cast for the Danse des Petits Cygnes. She’d be performing at the Met with American Ballet Theater and was beside herself with excitement. It wasn’t her first time on stage, but it was her first time on so grand a stage. JJ had been in love with ABT since seeing her very first ballet, age five. She hadn’t fidgeted even a moment in her new dress and sat with eyes riveted, missing nothing. Perched on the very edge of her seat, when the curtain had drawn closed, applause dwindling around them, JJ had turned to Penny, eyes sparkling and whispered determinedly, “I’m going to do that, Mommy.” It was never I want to be a princess or a ballerina to pretend or to play. There were no flights of fancy in this. Penny’s inexplicably focused daughter had that very night upon returning home, changed into her leotard and practiced her positions before a mirror until scolded to go to bed. 

JJ then at five and now at nine was unshakable in her conviction to be a dancer. It made such punishments as these even less palatable for Penny. This was her daughter’s truest love and it was painful to see it used in a consequence. Needs must, here they were instead of spending the day at a costume fitting and playing with the three other young girls cast for this specific choreography in ABT’s production. Today JJ would review the choreography alone. As punishments went, Penny reasoned that JJ’s disgruntled response was more out of principle than any actual displeasure at this particular employment of her time. JJ had by choice never been anything but studious.

Out of said principle, a point was being made as JJ resumed the choreography in a fairly lack luster performance. Penny clapped her hands sharply, once again calling a halt to the music. Startled, JJ looked up at her mother somewhat guiltily. Striding to her daughter’s side, Penny knelt to look into eyes so very like her own.

“We are dancers, little cat.” Penny spoke softly, intently. She so needed her daughter to understand. This lesson, more than any skill she might learn on these well-traveled floors, this lesson was most important. “To us the movement is important because it is inherited. When you dance these Pas de Chat, you are dancing movements passed down one hundred twenty years from teacher to student to you.” Placing a hand to rest over the speeding cadence in her daughter’s chest, Penny continued. “When you dance these steps, you’re telling the proud story of generations of dancers who danced them before you. Always remember, no matter when you dance or for whom, this is our inheritance.” JJ nodded silently in humble understanding. Penny smiled, cupping her daughter’s cheek lovingly before rising to her feet. “Very well then. Lisa, if you would, please.” 

 

Mid August 1986 …

Sipping the last of the wine, even JJ sneaking a few from Frances’s glass, they gathered after dinner to settle around the fire. JJ perched at Frances’s side on the edge of a sizable leather armchair. For a moment they were a family portrait in the warm glow of firelight. Penelope, finished with the tidying in the kitchen, came to wrap her arms around JJ’s shoulders in an affectionate squeeze. She held her for several long moments, looking down at her daughter’s upturned face with a measure of pride. Jennifer could imagine Penelope holding JJ as an infant, love reflected in her eyes. Jennifer wondered if years ago, young and lovestruck did Penelope and Frances imagine being these two women. Penelope gave JJ a gentle nudge to which JJ obediently vacated her seat with a peck on each of her mothers’ respective cheeks. 

Drifting to join Jennifer on a cozy chair, snug but just enough room to squeeze two, JJ smiled shyly. The flush in her cheeks was indistinguishable from the warmth of the fire. Jennifer welcomed the company with her own smile and placed an arm loosely around JJ’s shoulders. “Thanks for inviting me to dinner.” She whispered.

“Thanks for coming.” JJ replied, adding with conviction, “I’m glad you’re here.” JJ’s look was meaningful and Jennifer was again struck by the powerful energy that arched between them.

“Me too.” Jennifer looked away to the fire, willing the anxious beating of her heart to settle. Penelope had taken a place reclined on the floor against her wife’s legs. How many evenings were spent in such perfection, Jennifer wondered. It didn’t take much prompting to get Penelope and Frances to open up further about the lives of the two young girls soon to be immortalized on film. Contented by the meal and the dwindling hours of the late evening, she listened placidly to Penelope and Frances’s voices entwined in the dance of storytelling. She was eager to hear more tales of summer in the Catskills. It had been for them an Eden capturing forever the bloom of their collective youth. 

Even JJ listened raptly, despite having heard these stories time and again. Lulled by the pleasant meter of those voices, her eyes steadily drooped, her posture deflated until she dozed. She curled down under Jennifer’s arm with unfailing accuracy, pillowed half on and half off Jennifer’s thighs. In turn, Jennifer allowed her fingers to drift and curl through loose ringlets, watching sparks jump in the fire. It had probably been several long moments since silence pervaded the room, time in which Jennifer realized belatedly she was regarded under dual scrutiny. Glancing away from the fireplace she met first brown eyes then blue. Penelope appeared charmed given the delight in her expression and Frances only smirked irreverently.

“She must be exhausted.” Jennifer glanced down then quickly back up attempting to gauge the cavalcade of as yet unspoken thought.

“Hmm.” Frances murmured quietly. “Our Jonnie does not often …”

“Relax quite so freely.” Penelope interrupted, overriding whatever indiscreet suggestion had been sure to follow. Tacit was an antithetical descriptor where Frances was concerned. “She works very hard.”

“It seems she’s chosen to live her life by her parents’ example.” Jennifer replied pointedly. Frances chuckled. nodding her head at her daughter curling comfortably into Jennifer’s warmth..

“Apparently.” Over the course of the evening she still hadn’t quite caught up as this interplay between the two women shifted her continuously off balance. Penelope was demur, sweet and Frances was incorrigible. Jennifer had laughed at the ever more bawdy and ribald assertions of her petite hostess in the last few hours than she thought she may have her entire life. She’d blush, weeping with merriment and Penelope would simultaneously giggle and scold. Frances would only shrug saying - if it was so awful you wouldn’t laugh. 

Jennifer enjoyed, in particular, her time alone listening to Penelope illuminate a past so similar but quite unique to a script she was presently employed committing to memory. She asked countless questions, curious about the continuity between the screenplay and the reality. It was fair, save that Baby ends up with Penelope and Jonny was never a dance instructor so much as a writer. When she’d asked about the abortion, Penelope had paused, sadness evident even after so many years. Part of Jennifer had hoped it had been added for the sake of drama, a bit of creative license on Jonathan Leonard’s part. The sorrow in Penelope’s expression had confirmed for her otherwise.

“No my dear, that happened.” Penelope had said. “Just not to me.” Penelope told a sorrowfully short and unhappy story of a staff girl, a close friend with whom she and Jonny had been kids. Much like in the screenplay, in so-called trouble, their friend had sought out an abortion. It was a time when such procedures were illegal and she’d pointlessly died under horrifically painful conditions. She’d died bleeding on a card table in the basement of a sociopath who fancied himself a surgeon at the right price. Their friend, Penelope explained with tears in her eyes, perished alone and for no reason any of them, in their youth could comprehend. Jonathan’s choice to include a story about abortion in the script was a dedication to the memory of their friend and so many women who like her had suffered such empty deaths. Jonny and Penelope’s grief had been Frances’s original inspiration to fight for women’s reproductive rights.   
.  
It had been a night of revelations. Jennifer had not, however, intended to reveal the deeply buried secret attached to the young woman, the girl really, sleeping in her lap. Penelope’s voice was all the tender simplicity of acceptance and comprehension. Feeling the tightening coil of tension in her chest retreat, Jennifer’s smile was wary nonetheless.

“There is no need for embarrassment.” Penelope coaxed gently. Gesturing between Jennifer and her daughter added, “This is okay.”

“I don’t know what this is.” Jennifer could barely manage a whisper, caught by surprise at the sudden accumulation of tears in the back of her throat. 

Penelope rose with ease and when she came to bend before the chair, meeting Jennifer eye to eye, it was with equal ease that she said only, “You will.” Soft lips brushed her forehead with mothering care and Penelope cupped her cheek before turning to Frances. “Shall we, love?”

“Indeed.” Deserting the comfort of her chair, Frances turned a fond eye on first her sleeping child and then Jennifer with a wink that was more encouragement than amusement. Jennifer watched them leave, feeling the warmth of admiration and some envy. That warmth turned to heat a moment later as JJ stirred in her lap, face burrowing into Jennifer’s stomach. She could undisputedly feel the warm exhalation, of JJ’s breathing through the thin material of her shirt. Shallow breath after breath crossed JJ’s parted lips and Jennifer felt her hips give an involuntary twitch. She pushed her shoulders back, deep against the cushions grasping wildly for the reigns over her suddenly racing pulse, the harsh beating rushed in her chest, roared in her ears.

She placed a trembling hand to the small of JJ’s back, whispering hoarsely, “Jayj, wake up. Time for bed.”

“Mmmm,” JJ mumbled annoyance and wiggled impossibly closer. Rolling her eyes, Jennifer gave the girl a gentle but insistent shake

“Jayj.”

“Mrrph! Wuh?” JJ blinked up, then squinted sleepy cobalt.

“You can’t sleep on your couch all night, sweetie.” Jennifer grinned, rueful. “Come on, up.”

“We’re going to bed?” JJ asked, eyes in slits really not open at all. Jennifer swallowed, trying, failing to banish the images in her head.

“You have to go to bed and I have to go home sweetie. I have an early flight tomorrow.” From semi-audible murmuring, Jennifer could just decipher the word stay. “I can’t. Come on, Jayj.” Jennifer drew her fingertips into deep onyx tresses to gently rub along JJ’s scalp. Arching into the pressure, JJ’s mouth opened in a wide exhausted “o” and squeaked the most adorable yawn Jennifer could rationalize having seen in life. 

“Ok.” Arms stretched above her head, the thin shirt she wore riding as high as her ribs. Jennifer sat entranced by the spectacle, the toss of tumbling hair down slim shoulders. JJ sat up and back, her forehead dropping against Jennifer’s shoulder in one last snuggle of struggling motivation to rise. Breath breezed hot against her neck, toyed with the curls at the base of her skull, gusting faintly down her shirt until Jennifer could no longer restrain the energy that electrified her spine. She marveled at her hands, her very own seditious hands raised in mutiny against vestigial temperance. Each finger proved apostate to reason as they traced, encircled the delicate bones of JJ’s sleeping face. An instant of symmetry as JJ’s eyes slid open and awake. Jennifer’s slid closed. She barely needed to lean forward for that first breathless taste of kissing JJ. And feeling JJ shift, but not to break away, Jennifer moaned. Fingers slid into her hair, pulling in, pressing forward. JJ licked tentatively at Jennifer’s lips then plunged right in.

 

Early October 1997 …

“Remind me, how did you get the tickets for this?” Glancing around at Hollywood glitterati, JJ sipped disinterestedly at her champagne. It was after all chic to appear disinterested at these things. She tossed long hair out of her eyes. Manny said that move made her look like a young Cher on the cover of Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves. 

“One of our patrons …” Jose Manuel Carreno, or Manny as JJ alone called him, was quite adroit at disinterested. He did, however, offer a casual smile as he caught the eye of an older man dressed stylishly across the room. “Valentino.” Manny murmured, encouraging JJ to pay attention to the man’s expensive suit. 

“Manny!” JJ hissed stepping into the young man’s eye line long enough to regain his attention.

“What?” He didn’t falter at JJ’s arched eyebrow but conceded for the pleasure of her anticipated disapproval, “Okay, let’s just say I got them from one of MY patrons.” He pursed his lips, devilishly. “Relax Junior, try and remember tonight is fun with famous pretties.”

“I hate when you call me Junior, Jose Manuel. I sound like the last great patriarchal hope in a dwindling regime of ill-fated entrepreneurs.”

“You love it.”

“I hate it.” JJ muttered finishing her champagne and glancing around for the cocktail waiter. “And I hate this. What is this party for anyway?” Manny raised his own glass to check his reflection, patting lightly at his delicately styled coif. He said the older men just died for that pixie cut, something about boy hood fantasies of fucking the original fairy, Peter Pan. 

“New York Film Festival movie premiere after party, sweetie.” Manny reached over to brush nonexistent lint from the shoulder of the jacket on which he’d convinced her to spend half a month’s salary. It was really less jacket and more concept. The whisper thin material certainly wasn’t intended to keep her warm. She did admit it fit like a dream, hugging her slight frame perfectly. She had a typical dancer’s body and unless she bought her things from Gap kids, she virtually swam in slacks and shirts. She didn’t know any painters that paid as much for their jackets but Manny had called it butch chic insisting that all the Hollywood dykes present at the party would salivate. 

Tonight, in her over-priced jacket, stilettos and tight jeans instead of shrugs or warm-ups and pointe shoes, she hoped to be the embodiment of glam. She hoped intently as she’d finally given in to Manny’s badgering that she should go out with one of the cute lezzie stylists at his favorite spa. If she didn’t manage to pull a phone number out of a hat, there was no getting out of that hastily rendered - Fine, I’ll do it! 

Manny’s attention had returned to the silver-haired play boy in the expensive suit. The old guy seemed to be working up the courage for a final approach. JJ sighed anticipating the outcome.

“I swear to Christ Manny if you leave me here to go trick some octogenarian, I’m disowning you as my queer super twin.” She muttered under her breath. “And I’m telling Steven.”  
.  
“Steven and I have an understanding.” Manny rolled his eyes. “Besides, I require a gentleman who can provide for me in a manner in which I am accustomed to being kept.” JJ snorted, immediately receiving a cool look. “Have another drink darling.” Manny opted for the uncommon pretense of being dignified and forewent comment. He instead relinquished his unfinished champagne into her waiting hands.

“Couldn’t we just …” JJ’s intention was to suggest going to their favorite bar in Brooklyn then head home early since they were both on the stage in the morning. Instead she was interrupted by an utterly dramatic stage gasp.

“Gloria Gaynor!” Manny’s fingers whipped up in front of his lips as his eyes locked on the entrance to the party.

“Where?” JJ peered past him but noted the obvious absence of the seventies icon.

“No, I mean look who just walked in …” Manny glanced at JJ, expectant and star struck. “Jason Fedele, Vogue nominee for male model of the year? Hello?” JJ hummed in disinterest turning to catch the cocktail waiter’s eye as he passed within a few feet. “Who is that he’s with?” Manny continued undeterred by her lagging attention. “I could have sworn he was family.” Snagging another glass of champagne, JJ finished off the remains of Manny’s and turned trying now to actually catch a look.

“Beard.” They intoned together with a giggle.

“Who are you talking about? All I see is suits. I thought you said there would be women here tonight.” JJ grumbled.

“Don’t be daft, it’s early. These are just execs. There will be plenty of gorgeous women arriving shortly.” Manny murmured, still focused on the recent arrivals, then, “I swear, she looks so familiar.” 

“Where?” JJ craned her neck.

“Honestly Junior, right there.” Manny huffed trying hard not to point in exasperation. She’d drawn closer, this mystery on the arm of a smirking male model. She was suddenly impossible to miss and Manny exclaimed in recollection, “Oh I know who that is. That’s …”

“Jennifer Grey.” JJ choked, coughing uncontrollably.. Manny pointedly rescued the champagne flute from her hand, rubbing her back in firm circles.

“Okay there? Someone have a little Dirty Dancing fetish? Hmm? Ferris Bueller’s Day Off fantasy?” JJ’s withering look was her only response as she retrieved her champagne and downed the glass.

“Hot. Going. Air.” She gasped, pressing the now empty glass back into Manny’s hands. 

“Lovely.” He gave her an assessing look up and down that conveyed in no uncertain terms he thought her odd behavior didn’t require fresh air so much as an intervention prescribed in pill form. The venue was a sizable restaurant and bar that offered an open air patio for its patrons. Several pods of smokers already huddled chatting and puffing in camaraderie. Unlike many dancers who determined nicotine not only relieved stress but eased hunger, JJ never adopted that particular habit. She found a corner as far away from the haze though her initial intent seemed moot. She was grateful, nevertheless, for the cool evening air. It was stuffy and a touch claustrophobic indoors with so many people. Besides, seeing Jennifer had been unsettling to say the least. She needed a bit of privacy, relatively speaking, to get her bearings. It was like running into your fourth grade teacher at the grocery store, the one you had the embarrassingly obvious crush on throughout the school year. What did grown-up you say in that situation?

“Hey.” JJ looked up, swallowed and considered fainting. There she stood, as gorgeous as ever. It was as though the last ten years had in fact stood still. She’d let her curly mop of hair grow out some. She wore it now flat-ironed and styled into a faux hawk as seemed to be the recent Stefani-inspired rage among starlets. Dark shadowy eyes twinkling and light glimmering lips quirked as Jennifer got her own good look at JJ who swallowed, counted to ten and hoped for divine intervention on the part of her verbal acuity. “J. Johnson Hausseman I thought that was you. Look at you all grown up.” No kidding. All grown up but it still felt the same. Mouth inordinately dry JJ worked to say something, anything really as her focus was drawn to Jennifer’s bare midriff. She wore a three quarter sleeved turtle-neck sweater in large black and white stripes tight across her … JJ drew her eyes away noting instead the shortest pleated black skirt she had ever seen. Leather knee high boots, with spiked heels graced slim legs but only further accentuated the long expanse of bare thigh. If Jennifer turned, JJ imagined she’d see ...

“Jen, hi. You look,” JJ fumbled, grinned. “Hi.” Jennifer stepped forward pulling JJ into a tight embrace. 

“What is that Prada? Very nice!” Jennifer held JJ at arms’ length admiring the jacket. Thanking Manny profusely in her head, JJ made a passable attempt at nonchalance. 

“I do alright. Of course, I’m no movie star. Are you associated with all of this?”

“Star is a bit on the nose, but yes this is a project I just finished. I’m very proud of it.” Jennifer raised an expectant eyebrow, “What about you?”

“I’m a principle with ABT.” JJ beamed. She never tired of saying that. It had long been a dream before she’d finally made it come true. “Two years now. They recruited me right after grad school.”

“Jayj that’s wonderful. Congratulations! Penelope and Frances must be so very proud.” 

“They are, I think. I am, at any rate. I worked damn hard for it.” JJ was at once shy. She felt like her childhood self again having this conversation with her most memorable pupil. Jennifer opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by a man in a suit. Clearly a studio exec of some kind, this wasn’t the Vogue honoree Manny had pointed out. He placed a rather familiar hand on Jennifer’s arm and JJ could already feel herself drawing away as she watched him lean in to speak quietly into Jennifer’s ear. He didn’t so much as acknowledge JJ’s presence beyond a somewhat dismissive look as he stepped back gesturing expectantly toward the party indoors. “I’m sorry Jayj.” Jennifer apologized, looking as though she were physically being pulled in the opposite direction. Not to any surprise, JJ felt a distinct pang of disappointment. “Please excuse me. Unfortunately, I am working this evening. It was good seeing you.” JJ gave a half-hearted smile.

“Sure. It was good seeing you too.” JJ followed Jennifer’s progress, her petite figure disappeared quickly into the milling crowd of party-goers. “That settles it.” She muttered. She didn’t care if every old man in the place was vying for Manny’s attentions. Her evening was done. There was a hot bath and a beer waiting for her at home along with any able distraction that would rid her mind of Jennifer Grey. So easily enchanted again after all these years, some things just didn’t change.

Manny’s protests were predictable bordering on coarse as she tore him out of the clutches of his would be suitor. “He’s an agent with William Morris.” Manny stopped short, plastering a fake smile for the benefit of whatever audience she guessed he imagined they had. “William Morris.” He pronounced it slowly, tilting his head up to give her a pointed look that dared her to argue.

“I’m not staying. Do what you want.” Her expression flat, she left him without preamble. He’d fuss tomorrow before rehearsal, giving her little more than a baleful eye then predictably they would make up over whispered gossip during a break stolen in an empty stairwell. It was a familiar dance, familiar enough that she ignored the twinge of guilt for leaving him to his own albeit ample devices. She could not abide another moment in this place, these people, Jennifer so unexpectedly close-by yet as ever out of reach. She shouldered her way through the suits, now joined by a fair share of shining starlets, actresses, actor’s wives, and a handful of women in the executive branches of the Hollywood business. They were all as glamorous as Manny had assured in the highly convincing argument that had secured her attendance. Unfortunately, there was only one stunning beauty occupying her thoughts as she reached the door and was halted on the threshold of her bid for freedom.

“You’re not leaving.” Turning, JJ masked her surprise. Jennifer had the most uncanny expression and intent in her eyes.

“Yes actually.” JJ tilted her head, expecting a good-bye along the lines of, maybe I’ll see you in another ten years.

“Alright.” Jennifer grabbed her hand tugging JJ out into the night. “Then I’ll have to insist you leave with me.”

“I thought you were …”

“Working?” Jennifer finished, seeming to delight in the hopeful confusion lighting behind JJ’s careful expression. “Always. Play hooky with me?” At the look of concern threatening the certainty JJ would agree, Jennifer assured her, tongue firmly in cheek, “Don’t worry. The press loves it when we movie stars behave unpredictably.”

 

The Carlyle on Madison Avenue reminds JJ of the grand elegant hotel where she’d learned, grown, called home. Only this hulking monolith was full of strangers and lights that did not warm her skin and carpets that shifted in wrongness under her feet and walls that threatened and ceilings that colluded a general closing in that formulated an abhorrent partnership of the unfamiliar in sight, sound and smell. She could not control this instinctual reaction but she governed it, passing like the lost through doorways until the last, their destination. She’d follow this inspiration through every hell or just into this hotel. When the door to Jennifer’s room, an opulent suite, clicked shut behind her, JJ stepped calmly out of her heels right there. She wanted the first thing she discarded to be the last she’d later repair.

“Fuck!” It was a genuine curse, crushed and almost quieted against her lips along with a sputtered, “Jayj …” She’d sunk her fingers into Jennifer’s carefully rendered hairstyle and yanked. Jennifer, before she so much as had the chance to fumble a light switch and turn careless smirk into seduction, was being devoured in the hallway of her New York City hotel suite. Too late, JJ thought triumphant, too late to rethink this. This time she was committed wherefore all the tension they’d toyed with inevitably was headed. As a teenager she’d waited dutifully if in vain for Jennifer’s touch and the beat of that desire never abated. There was a clatter of purses and paraphernalia on all sides as she pushed and Jennifer pulled and ensnared they met in the middle. 

Jennifer’s manicured nails tangled in her tee-shirt, stretching, stretching until a long telling rip echoed. Utterly expensive fucking designer tee-shirt bought in SoHo, JJ grimaced, and in response, sunk her teeth into Jennifer’s bottom lip. Gasping Jennifer leaned back just enough to rake wild eyes across JJ’s and detecting no intended cruelty, they collided again. JJ unceremoniously lifted the tight skirt that had so distracted her tonight to bunch up above slender hips and yanked the smallest thong she’d probably ever seen to the side with an indelicate rip. Given Jennifer’s apparent expensive tastes, she supposed that single act more than made up for the tee-shirt. 

Tips drifting through slick, wet heat, JJ moaned her appreciation sliding two fingers deep in a sudden thrust. Jennifer, unprepared for the intensity of the sudden intrusion, jerked her hips forward and screamed, knees buckling. Having failed to relinquish her hold, they both toppled in what was little more than a controlled fall on to cold marble. Jennifer’s mouth rounded about the keening sounds climbing up her throat and out from that deepest of places goaded by JJ’s firm touch. Free hand shaking, JJ unbuttoned her jeans, muttered curses about fucking inconvenient how tight was in fashion. She wiggled, shimmied and kicked herself free with her briefs caught just below her knees. Jennifer grunted, shoved the offending garment down JJ’s toned legs with her foot then sighed with anxious relief as JJ straddled that very thigh grinding down fiercely. JJ, chewed back her own sounds of pleasure on swollen lips, seeing a brilliant twinkling of stars when her clit hit the bony protrusion of Jennifer’s hip. She gasped unable, unwilling to temper her pace, already so close. 

JJ slid indelicately along Jennifer’s thigh, scoring it in the wet that had pooled during a quiet cab ride. Her knees scraped against the floor, harder with every deliberate shift of her weight. Jennifer lifted her hips, greeting each thrust in an agitation of grunts and cries, seeking to lock them even closer together. Leaning forward, JJ panted, breathless against a damp cheek. Her breasts, peeking out of the new neckline of her shirt, scraped the deliciously soft weave of Jennifer’s sweater. Nipples hardened painfully and she sucked in a heaving gasp, reeling at the heady mix of perfume and sex and the heat between them. “Do you remember Jen, you remember?” Her breath hitched in crests and furrows as though she were sprinting endless flights of stairs. She stuttered, struggling to breathe evenly, “Remember the last time we did this.” Jennifer, one leg encircling JJ’s hip, hands tangled in the ruins of the tee shirt she’d mangled, somehow managed to look askance.

“Jayj, baby, we’ve never done this.” JJ thrust harder, three fingers buried deep, curling, retracting, only to repeat. Jennifer’s breath caught, eyes rolling momentarily back, then “I’d remember. Trust me.”

“Oh that’s right.” JJ was a feral apparition in the dim light that seeped under the crack of the door a few meager feet behind them. “You kissed me then left me to ten years of bottled up horny.” Jennifer’s bark of surprised amusement broke into indistinguishable bits of pleading. 

“Oh, fuck! Baby … please … please.” Control had fizzled away to a wrestling match between the rhythm of her fingers and the jerky thrusting of her own hips. JJ placed a hand down on the floor for balance. The cool temperature of marble a contradiction in strict opposition to the pulsating warmth encasing the fingers of her other hand. Adjusting her wrist for leverage, JJ’s thumb stroked the length of Jennifer’s distended clit. There was a shock of sudden silence, paralysis in which the pressure around JJ’s fingers transformed. She felt fluttering warmth contract into obdurate heat. Jennifer did not so much as draw breath. They tilted in a precarious grip, hearts beating frantic. Jennifer turned only her head and bit, an exhalation of warm, wet shouted across the skin between JJ’s neck and shoulder. She sobbed at the distortion of it, pleasure and pain, edging out the very last of restraint. 

Despite the lulling thrum against her fingers, JJ withdrew with an audibly wet pop of expulsion. She pushed up the tight sweater and gauzy material of Jennifer’s bra and clutched reassuringly round flesh. JJ dipped her head to wrap her lips around the quick response of erectile tissue. She’d left a wet trail along skin she could taste mixed with the salt of sweat. Her hips lifted, humped and she growled in wordless appreciation, suckling becoming far from artful. For JJ, it was a perfectly maddening dance of exquisite pleasure building, broadening without release.

Jennifer unclenched her grip on JJ’s neck, hotly laving the fairly deep imprint. JJ’s bare thigh had found with startling accuracy the tumescent flesh of her clit and Jennifer again felt arousal swiftly peaking. She pressed a kiss, the first, the gentlest kiss of their evening on JJ’s damp temple. “Hey.” She murmured breathlessly. She rolled her hips, unintentionally dislodging JJ’s less than agile grinding. She felt her breast slip from JJ’s lips, and having garnered the younger woman’s undivided attention she repeated, “Hey. Just look at me.” JJ slowed, caught, pressed in the close embrace of that achingly precious gaze too long absent of it. Hands caressed her face, cradled her, pulled her forward as though they’d been transported in an instant back ten years to the perfect first kiss. She closed her eyes, felt soft lips and gave a startled cry, as her body clenched, shuddered, and released, wetness seeping copiously down her thighs.

Jennifer lay in a tangle of sheets, hair fanned out around her head. The creeping grey of early morning peeked through a gap between window curtains. JJ sat in an odd chair she’d pulled alongside the bed. She’d sat there for some time, watching. She watched the muscles shift in Jennifer’s back as she breathed and the light puffing of her cheeks. She watched Jennifer’s fingers twitch against the mattress, busy at whatever task she dreamed. She’d watched Jennifer’s body curl and turn in sleep, alone in that bed, hoping to remember it. 

She’d gotten dressed with practiced quiet, leaving her ruined tee-shirt on the foot of the bed. Luckily she’d had the presence of mind to slip out of and discard the sinful Prada jacket that had caught first Manny’s then Jennifer’s eye before crossing that final threshold last night. Now, she zipped it closed over her bare chest and tugged on her jeans. She tiptoed along the cold marble of the foyer to where her shoes stood watch over a deserted battle scene and collected her purse from the detritus of evening wear and undergarments littering the ground. Before the light of day could burn relevance into what they hadn’t accomplished, she was out, the Carlysle a looming monolith at her back and the click clack of her own footsteps a hollow testament of doubt about this silent departure. Mornings after were for romantic comedies and JJ had long determined her life was no such tale.

IV.  
Late November 2010 …

She just wanted to crawl into bed really. If blessed sleep followed this last enduring feat, then Amen. Jennifer pushed the frames of her glasses further up her nose. Finding a tie amongst the clutter of her dressing table, she pulled her hair back into a messy pony tail. Pulled by the siren call of crisp sheets and a fluffy duvet, she shuffled her feet in her slippers happily. Discarding her robe on a nearby chair, she sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing momentarily.

Tomorrow, she’d fly home to her life and her family, and wait for things to be quiet and normal again. Today, however, she could not resist one last glance through the ever growing list of emails on her Blackberry. There was always that slim chance of something more attractive than the week of sleep she had planned. Her agent kept insisting she stay open, take a few chances. But part of her was already thinking about driving her daughter to school and attending PTA meetings. Jennifer scrolled through the endless collection of subject lines extending congratulations one after another but didn’t bother to stop to read any. As anticipated there were several emails from her agent about scripts that looked promising. She convinced herself not to delete those outright. There were one or two pieces of spam that had dodged the filter, an email from her husband and another that caught her attention given the unexpected identity of the sender. Jennifer immediately scrolled to read.

Jen,

You looked amazing. But then, you always look amazing. Shall I add my own congratulations to the long list you stand to receive? I knew the moment I heard you’d signed on to the production that you would not quit until you’d won that hideous trophy. I mean it really is hideous, despite the well-deserved accolades it represents. Oh hell, congratulations my friend! Who would have thought, twenty-five years ago I’d be writing this? Perhaps it is too long now to recall those three weeks in all the time that has passed since. I hope you do not mistake this email an indication I presume some level of responsibility for what you did on that dance floor in front of millions. Millions! You’ve danced in front of greater audiences in two months than I have in the entirety of my career. You were a fine student but a dancer and performer long before we ever met. I am unspeakably proud to see your triumphant return. Never stop.

Yours in Friendship,  
J. Jonson Hausseman

Jennifer read the letter repeatedly, hoping … What was she hoping to see? Any indication would have been restorative that found some meaning in the protracted silence stretching between them all these years. She flushed recalling her very last glimpse of JJ. It had not been that night fifteen years ago at the Carlyle.

 

Early October 1998 …

Boogie Nights, following its successful premiere at the New York Film Festival, had been released with solid box office. She’d spent months since delighting audiences from the couches of late night and day time talk show hosts. Jennifer was exhausted and did not want to read another “you have to do this” script from her agent. She had a pretty persuasive offer to do a thriller with a young director from India. Something with ghosts, she’d only received pages for a screen test with Bruce Willis. She could admit her interest was piqued by all the secrecy surrounding the project; and Bruce had been likable enough. She couldn’t imagine they’d lack for chemistry. But something was telling her she didn’t want this, not anymore. In fact, she hadn’t felt the overwhelming excitement for the work that had encouraged her into this business for almost a year, not since … The Carlyle.

Jennifer had woken up to cool sheets and not so much as a note good-bye. She was on a plane the next day, press junket. A year had passed in a whirlwind and here she was seemingly in the same mental space as she’d been that unforgettable morning - waking up confused, lonely and trying desperately not to think about JJ. She fought every idle notion to call. Stumbled through letters she didn’t send but couldn’t help but write. It had been one night, one raw, frenzied night in thrall of every buried impulse passionately reawakened. Had they been so bound from that first meeting when eyes had locked across an empty studio and Jennifer knew, though she’d proceeded blithely? Perhaps it was a mystery best left unresolved, like unheard goodbyes whispered over sleeping lovers in dark hotel rooms.

In New York for an SNL appearance, Jennifer had spent the week working but also wandering old haunts. Paging through the Times while waiting for her call to rehearsal on set, she’d spied a lengthy review in the arts section regarding American Ballet Theater’s current production of Giselle. Amongst the phrases “triumphant spectacle” and “superb treatment” she’d read, “an enthralling specter on the stage, a new prima ballerina for a new era of American Ballet.” She knew without reading a word further, it was JJ.

Her assistant had scrambled obediently, miraculously finding a ticket for the oversold show. The review had been phenomenal and apparently everyone in the city intended to see Giselle. Jennifer managed to locate a suitable gown and wrap, and bustle herself into a hired car after rehearsal at 30 Rock. With traffic, she’d be a few minutes late but crossed her fingers for a delayed curtain. Perspiration prickled at her hairline, and she huffed trying to catch her breath. Fingers clutching her purse, she rode a rising tide of nervousness. It was silly really to get this worked up, she rationalized. She was going to the ballet and afterwards she would congratulate an old friend on her performance. That’s it.

Truth be told, in her mind she sometimes still pictured JJ as the sensitive fifteen year old prodigy with unwavering focus. She tried to imagine that lanky child in a dancer’s body on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House. Failing, it was much easier to manifest the vision of an ardent, womanly JJ, the one who’d taken her on a hotel room floor. Her heart raced when she slid into her seat in the mezzanine, holding her breath. House lights dimmed, the orchestra hummed, and the stage was lit with enchantment. Had it truly only been a year? Jennifer marveled, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She dare not blink, dare not breathe lest she miss even a moment.

Backstage Jennifer found the dancer’s dressing room vacant but managed to catch sight of JJ mid departure. Gorgeous and smiling, arms wide around a bouquet of roses, JJ had paused to fumble through her bag at the stage door. Jennifer hesitated, caught even at a distance by how stunningly JJ had blossomed. She’d been a gorgeous child, certainly. But the woman who stood, silhouetted at the end of the corridor, was a creature sacrosanct, empyrean, and Jennifer was frozen devout. Perhaps had she arisen from enchantment an instant sooner, so much would now be different. But she had stood, arrested to the spot, and simply looked.

JJ had been met then, another dancer in street clothes gliding up. One of the ballerinas from the chorus, Jennifer reasoned and watched. The young woman had smirked knowingly, waving a pen in her hand drawing JJ’s attention from the search through her bag. She’d teased, refusing to hand it over until JJ had laughed and Jennifer’s heart had stopped as she watched. That laughter so boisterous, free, it was a confession to anyone willing to hear it. No longer racing but beating the slow, aching rhythm of sudden despair over that laugh, joyous and familiar. Laughter quickly followed by a kiss, lovingly shared lent confirmation to realization Jennifer could not dismiss. JJ grinning, had grabbed the pen, and the two had disappeared, slipping out the stage door before Jennifer could so much as draw breath. That was the last time Jennifer had seen JJ, resplendent and in love … with someone else.

 

Late November 2010 …

JJ,

Your email is a welcome surprise. You and your indispensible lessons crossed my mind often in the last two months. Do not miss my intent as I say, without you I never could have accomplished this. Before we met, I was an actress with childhood dance lessons waiting to be unlocked from my memory. You made me a dancer. Life’s many complications, unexpected tragedies, may have drawn me away from the dance floor but these last two months have felt as though I never left. You gave me this love that grew stout of your own, inspired by you. It has never wavered and it will never again be still.

How can I say, in one email, so many necessary thanks? How could I have known the gifts you imparted in each lesson? I draw on them even now, writing this. You taught me how to breathe, to move, to live, and to be proud of this inheritance of which I once thought I was not worthy. I was mistaken then, and am grateful to have been so blessedly enlightened. Thank you JJ. If debts like these I owe you for my life renewed could ever somehow be repaid, never hesitate to ask. 

With Gratitude and Affection,  
Jen

P.S.  
It’s absolutely hideous. I’ve determined to lose it in a linen closet under the guest towels.

All old heart aches dull eventually, Jennifer mused tearing her eyes away from her Blackberry … eventually. Making sure she’d switched the device to silent, she replaced it on the bedside table and slid underneath the blankets. Sighing mightily, within moments of closing her eyes, she was asleep.


End file.
